Yulja - Merchant Prince
by Late to the Party
Summary: 'Merchant Prince' Yulja (Charname) buys shares in the Nashkel mine, demanding the mayor hold off on the news the mine was cleared; using the 900g, she invests in shares. Things take a turn from there. Pre-EE. Written on 23-09-18 in two days.
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1.

They acted as though it were a day like any other. In the dimly lit office, sunlight pouring through the shutters, Yulja squared off against Mayor Ghastkill. The major of Nashkel tried vainly to rescind his offer, his feeble backpaddling serving only to incense the 'sweet tempered' maiden further. Palms flat on the desk, she leaned in, her sharp nose all but scraping the bulbous mass that barely passed for proboscis. His right porous nostril was a caved in ruin, and his left wheezed like the broken bellows of the town's abandoned smithy. Nine hundred gold split six ways instead of a stake of the mine? A one-time payoff? A 'small fortune' indeed! Pwah! What did this ignorant, lumbering oaf take her for?

Those wretched miners would prove their worth. There was, Yulja noted, kobold ichor still on her boots, and with a crooked smile that never touched her eyes, she hefted it and set it against the desk, her leather britches straining. The mayor's gaze drifted to the appropriate stain, and mutely, he relented. Yulja's toothy grin broadened.

Trade was booming. Six months after Yulja and her compatriots had cleared the mines, Yulja's boots remained where they had that very first night they returned: on the tavern tabletop. Electing to stay long after her companions had gone on their merry way, Yulja wanted for nothing, or so she decided. With her newfound position as a majority shareholder, she forced Ghastkill to send for mercenaries from the south, a motion that was supported by all the surviving townsfolk. While bandits plagued the roads north, trade with Athkatla continued as soon as the snows blocking the pass melted. With that melt, Yulja insisted that Ghastkill post vacancies and offer town lots for any willing to come and work the mines. Now the 'demons' were slain, there was no reason good, honest work wouldn't be appealing, especially now the roads north weren't safe. Bounty hunting, to Yulja, qualified as 'good, honest work'. And so, the first few caravans trickled in.

Ghastkill argued the town had no money, but no one else knew that. The last of the coffers were spent paying off Yulja's companions, companions who felt the need to investigate further and travel north to Beregost, as if the route south from Beregost to Nashkel hadn't been dangerous enough… But Ghastkill wasn't the smartest and Yulja refrained from telling him so. Patiently, perhaps overly patiently, she explained that the Flaming Fist, headquartered in Beregost, set the bounty on bandits and they, the frontier mining town of Nashkel, separated from the rest of Amn by the mountains, wouldn't pay so much as a copper piece. Besides which, they weren't going to pay anyone in gold: they were going to pay people in _iron_. There was a reason the current trouble was named the 'Iron Crisis'. Sure, iron wouldn't fetch much in Nashkel but in Beregost, where iron was so scarce it was worth a tenth of its weight in gold… and who would clear the roads to risk this vast fortune? Those same mercenary bounty-hunters. Sometimes, it was amazing that Ghastkill was elected mayor to begin with, but that was the trouble with political connections, she supposed.

With the reinforcements, a palisade was erected around the town, the stockade manned at all hours, and the bandits kept at bay. A circus came to visit, drawn by the swarm of bored sellswords in dire need of entertainment, and with that circus came Aerie, Yulja's most recent purchase.


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2.

Aerie was something of an oddity, Yulja reflected as the elf bathed her feet in the tub. From her recently renovated house, more of a manor really, Yulja enjoyed gaping bay windows, the herb and lavender gardens below, her little courtyard and modest fountain, modest in scope rather than subject, and from her elevated and lofty octagonal tower, all the lesser houses with their single-floored storeys fell beneath the purview of her great beams, rose trellis and chimneys. It could even be said she had given way to excess by the half dozen chimneys she installed, but a two-storey tower and loft might as well be a barn compared to the villas of Athkatla. Still, she was working on it. Dividing her wealth, which naturally, was iron, between fortifying her plaster, wood-and-daub house with stone and investing through her newly acquired major-domo based in Beregost, she continued to expand. While her missives were run by an impressionable young lad attached to a caravan under the dwarf mercenary 'Kagain', Yulja herself chose to oversee operations within Nashkel.

The circus proved a boon, and Aerie, between stammers, somehow tended adequately enough to her needs. Clothing the impoverished elf was a trial in and of itself, but Yulja had the good sense to hire a whole circle of seamstresses, all of whom worked out of her workshop in the 'house' section of home. Those same seamstresses were indentured servants, but Yulja was kind enough to grant them not only a basic salary, which covered room and board, but also a royalty for each garment they made. Those garments she sold to the miners, the sellswords and the rest of those passing through.

Her next venture was to erect a much-needed bathhouse, as well as secure a caravan to supply the raw wool bales. An extension to her house and more indentured servants were hired to comb and spin the fabric; a dyeworks was far too smelly for her tastes, and frankly, the townsfolk just didn't deserve it, so in an effort to spare her nostrils, Yulja passed a motion banning all tanneries and dyeing from within the town. Lye and other foul cleaners were all that was allowed. Aerie, as it turned out, had hidden uses, and her gift at the Art provided fresh, clean scents. So when she wasn't scrubbing Yulja's feet, wringing her smalls, and generally playing housekeeper and laundry maid, Yulja quizzed her.

It wasn't long after that that Aerie worked in the garden, and Yulja set up a perfumery. It wasn't much, but it sold. Meanwhile, the mercenaries cleared the road and the iron flowed through to Beregost, and then upwards to the city of Baldur's Gate, where iron was so prized. And Yulja, Yulja's market increased.


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3.

In the months that followed, there was a natural lull as the iron prices evened out. It was to be expected, even valued, but before the market stabilised, Yulja shipped her stock north, concealed in woollen britches, and transformed the slender iron ingots into a vast fortune. Hiring help that could be trusted was not easy, as many mercenaries were prone to turn bandit, but through her dealings with Kagain, she cut a deal, and more to the point, she had convinced the Flaming Fist, courtesy of her major-domo, to insure all her caravans as part of their 'protection of the roads'.

Aerie quietly disapproved of this extravagance but fell strangely silent when Yulja funded Nashkel's first public works: the construction of a library. What Yulja failed to mention was her connection with Candlekeep, or that through her major-domo, various books would be shipped, reprinted, or at least donated from Athkatla, whose markets were the stuff of legend. A modest library for an up and coming town, a town that would surpass Beregost in grandeur, Yulja proclaimed while hosting a private dinner. Beregost wasn't much of a town to begin with, but then, neither was Nashkel and of the two, Beregost had a lot more potential were it not for Nashkel's mines.

It was unfortunate, then, that the past did catch up, and Yulja was forced to dispatch another would-be assassin. Since her first foray into the shady dealings of the criminal underworld at the tender age of nine, which involved being framed for a series of pie thefts across multiple months and kitchens, Yulja had grown wise to the law, its use and its cudgel. She also learnt how to cover her tracks, so on that fateful afternoon when that fool tried to shank her in the stables and the resident cow hollered and kicked him in the back of the head, leaving him in a critical condition, she learnt that someone was after her life. Naturally, she insisted on disguising herself, and even after her foster father fell prey to more assassins, she remained safe, her decoy perishing in a blaze of golden glory. That particular trick, a simulacrum, was one of the last gifts her foster father left her, along with a vast knowledge that had no practical application. Still, Yulja endeavoured to make the best of it, and the face-changing spell had never worn off.

The assassin threatened to ruin everything. Leaving him facedown in the town well just wasn't going to cut it. Inwardly, Yulja swore, but outwardly she smiled. She was going to have to make it up to Aerie, somehow. Naturally, Aerie wanted to turn the man over to the authorities. Naturally, Yulja patiently explained that 'accidents' befell those held in the town's jail, and troubled, Aerie accepted her mistress' explanation. So Aerie agreed to interrogate him 'humanely', and he proved surprisingly quick-witted, enough that he thought lodging in Nashkel would allow him win his master's favour. It turned out that the rapid expansion of Nashkel's mines angered some very powerful people, and despite her best efforts, those holding majority shares, namely Yulja, had elicited their wrath.

Perhaps it was time to liquidate her assets?


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4.

Whores and ale were two commodities that never went out of style, but neither one was something Yulja cared to trade in. With her workers wanting higher pay, better benefits and on the brink of forming a union, Yulja decided it was time to set the next step of her plan in motion. It wouldn't be long before her workers broke away, or at least, her monopoly was broken, so she did the only sensible thing she could and formed a company under the guise of a guild. Naturally, she explained to Mayor Ghastkill, it would be taxable, and the guildhouse that was the same construction as a barn with less haybales and more planking, became the seat of her seamstresses' power. Freeing her indentured servants with a grand gesture and making them all shareholders, while she, Yulja, retained a majority, silenced the grumbling but their stunned awe and admiration would not last long.

While the seamstresses fought amongst themselves over how best to manage and run the company, Yulja brought in a profession, an employee from Athkatla, recommended by one of her contacts there. Able to take a backseat to the squabbling, she distanced herself and prepared to sell her shares should the guild fail. Whether or not it did, the numbers had slowed from a stream back to a trickle, and it was time for something else. Nashkel was running out of promise, and despite her library, and newly hired schoolteacher, few of the locals could or even wanted to read. The library was a wasted effort, and perhaps one she should not only have expected, but prepared for. The bathhouse, however, more than paid for itself a hundred times over. With the 'Iron Crisis' firmly resolved, Yulja sold her shares to those in Beregost and Baldur's Gate, her major-domo starting a rumour that Nashkel's mines were running dry. Naturally, this news spread like wildfire, and naturally, there were many who doubted the validity, but many more, fuelled by greed and fear, gobbled up her shares at outrageous prices. From that one transaction alone, she could fund an army.

Aerie, ever-present, liked to offer suggestions while soaping Yulja's feet. Philanthropic enterprises, such as schoolhouses, charitable outreach, shelters for the destitute, soup for the impoverished, a suggestion Yulja misheard as 'soap'. Aerie agreed that perhaps the disadvantaged needed both, and timidly allowed that the lavender line was a success. Yulja wasn't quite inclined to share her optimism: it was, at best, moderately adequate. It hadn't taken off as she hoped, but herbal and scented soap had cleaned up the town, and the miners' wives now couldn't live without it. The commodity hadn't spread beyond Nashkel, likely wouldn't, and now the trade routes were back, Yulja could only cut costs so far before it became unsustainable. Of course, the cost of transport and the tariffs that Mayor Ghastkill levied on non-Nashkel manufactured wares, a tariff that Yulja herself might have pushed for to 'encourage the local economy', did, to some extent, help keep her lavender line in business. More importantly, it kept Aerie out of trouble.

Her retinue, Yulja observed, had expanded, drawing a runaway whose surname she had not learnt, either because she lacked one or because the girl somehow convinced Aerie not to cast her truth magic on her, and a visiting lady who Yulja wasn't entirely sure Aerie hadn't somehow invited. The two visitors, Skie, and Nalia, did not get along, and then they did, and fell out again. They argued, Skie whined, Nalia lectured most piously, they fell in together, browsed the Nashkel library, argued, Skie whined and Nalia lectured sanctimoniously. Yulja chose to retreat to her tower, in the upper chambers and Aerie joined her, choosing to sleep at her feet in a squat cot instead of her maid closet. Yulja couldn't blame her.

Over dinner one eve, Skie was complaining about stubbing her toe after getting a blister, and as Aerie advised a salve, the girl spoke on something that caught Yulja off-guard. Skie explained she was a runaway, that her lover, the bard she thought she was in love with, Nalia corrected primly once it was apparent that the seduction revolved around poetry, honeyed words and promises, to which Skie made a face to, was in jail. Fearing that Eldoth, the bard, would follow through with their scheme and sell her to an old noble and not rescue her, something she had secretly wondered and worried over ever since their coin had run out, she skipped town, hitching a ride on Kagain's caravan. Aerie looked on the verge of asking how Skie could afford it if her coin was gone, but Skie waved it away before Nalia could lend another lengthy speech. Instead, she thanked Yulja for taking her in, to which, Aerie glanced away, her cheeks tinging with pink, despite the half plea, half resolution as the elf met her mistress' steady gaze.

Graciously, Yulja welcomed Skie anew, claiming that scholars had a place at her hearth and she was always on the lookout for talent. Nalia did not quite snort, but Yulja caught her eye too, and taking both their hands and bringing them together, she invited them to winter with her. She needed, she explained, to embark on a new work, something to help better the people of the region. Commerce wasn't enough, and the taxes, trade tariffs, and the protection rackets in the cities put a damper on the good she hoped to do.

Nudging, rather than kicking Aerie under the table, Yulja indicated that she speak up and haltingly, the elf relayed how Yulja took her in, not as a drudge but as a maid, and how she worked off her debt and held a valued position at her mistress' side. Skie's face scrunched up at the tale, but Nalia nodded sagely, but both young women were horrified when Aerie revealed just how harsh the conditions in the circus really were. Pivoting around, she loosened her maid's dress and shift, offering the scarred view of her back and the stumps where her wings once lay. Even Yulja winced, but the sight had both girls in tears. It was Yulja's secret weapon, calculated to evoke the most outcry and sympathy, but she chose to use it sparingly. It was then Nalia revealed her tale, and her family lands, once wealthy, had declined in recent years. Her lip bit, and she admitted that the de'Arnise estate was in trouble and her hope was to help her family. Skie's eyes widened at this and even as the words left her mouth, Nalia shot it down: no, she did not want to marry to 'save' her family.

Yulja's look grew long and Nalia flushed. Inwardly, the cogs in her mind turned, her glands salivating: what could she do with a castle and its lands? With a deliberate pause, Yulja waited for things to click in Aerie's mind, but Skie chimed in that perhaps, Yulja could help. In careful, patient tones, Yulja informed them gravely she would have to think about it, and she would need to review the holdings. Naturally, she addressed Nalia, she did not work for free. Lip beneath her teeth, Nalia offered the smallest of nods.


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5.

Skie made for a terrible maid and an even worse lady's companion, and Nalia fussed and sighed so much that Yulja simply lent her new employer Aerie, taking Skie in as her own maid. It wasn't much better, but allowing Skie to prattle seemed to put the girl at ease, and the promise of new books lifted her spirits. Despite the faces Skie made, Yulja relayed that Skie was permitted to bathe in the same lavender waters once the girl dried her as she climbed from the tub. Those waters, heated by Aerie's magic, seemed to swallow hours of Skie's day, and kept the girl out of trouble.

While Skie hummed, happy in her bubbles, from her tower window, Yulja expiated plans to travel before the weather turned, and before any more pesky assassins struck from the city, or worse, perhaps, representatives of the protection rackets operated by the Amnish shadow thieves. Guards would need hiring, and if the lands were in the state Nalia claimed, then it was likely there was no small amount of banditry and-or corruption. The land might be fertile enough to grow on, but Yulja would need labour, and at present, she had nothing to incentivise commerce, agriculture, or migration. Still, the de'Arnise lands were profitable in the past, so there had to be something. The notion of creating a cultural hub held lasting appeal, and ever since her library had failed, Yulja was determined to find success, and perhaps Nalia's ancestral home was the place. Unfortunately, it didn't really seem to be on any of the major routes, so Yulja would have to bring people to them; there had to be something that would draw them to the keep.

As she paced, an idea began to take form. A carnival on a scale unlike any other, with a menagerie. The circus came to Nashkel to entertain those who were bereft of entertainment and with full pockets; could she replicate that? But there was no one on Nalia's land, so there needed to be accommodation. There was the castle itself, however. Whatever the draw was, it would have to be big, big enough to bring in people. For a carnival to work, she needed entertainers. Practicing the Art in Amn required a licence, and magic practitioners were likely taxed, so she might have to resort to street magic and parlour tricks, or, she could hire some conjurers, some illusionists. She might even be able to contract Aerie's circus. The whole thing would have to be unwritten, and she'd need investors for that. Maybe it was a bad idea, but something about it just appealed. A grand carnival, days from anywhere, filled with magic, exotic animals, and strange foods. Well, she'd see.

Nalia reacted surprisingly well. Skie was baffled, but delighted, and Aerie was horrified. 'Wholesome', 'recreation', and 'opportunity' were words that could not win Aerie around, but those words left lasting impact on Nalia. Dismissing the idea, Yulja instead offered a school of magic, similar to Ulcaster, but without any teachers of magic or tomes, it seemed foolish at best. Eventually, Aerie came around, perhaps due to Skie's bright eyes, or perhaps because she realised she had already lost. Nalia seemed taken by the notion of leopards, a vast, exotic garden filled with tropical birds and beasts, elephants, flowers and trees. Yulja modified it by adding that it could double up as an artist retreat, perhaps becoming a school of art, something that all three others approved of.

As their discussions continued, the preparations for the trip were readied and with a terse farewell to Mayor Ghastkill, and leaving her own people in trust, Yulja and her retinue and employer set off.


	6. 6

6.

The road was less romantic than the sagas, and that was something all four of them could agree on. Lumpy cushions did little to mask the constant juddering and every single bump in the road jolted through the carriage and into them. It might, Yulja pondered, be better to walk, as she and her former companions had on the journey south to Nashkel. But as they passed through the mountain, spotting the odd winter wolf along the way, the caravan and its somewhat out of place carriage, rumbled along. Aerie's spellcraft kept the worst of the elements at bay, warming the little cabin, but her skill was not enough to smooth the ride.

Skie's complaints were ceaseless. Back in the tower, it was 'pruney skin', or what was for dinner, and distaste at the idea of pottage or porridge. At least curled up with a book and blanket, she was content, occasionally looking up from her windowseat. Sometimes she'd shimmy down the trellis to the garden, but most of the time she stayed inside. Now, she was too cooped up, and despite having the window, with Aerie squished between her and Nalia, she was bored. 'Are we almost there yet?' was more grating than her repeated calls for Aerie to reheat the tub. Nalia also had the irritating habit of shifting seats, one hour beside Yulja, and the next beside Aerie. Aerie tried to bear up with grace, but the elf wilted, her whole figure drooping. Travel cakes were a plus, though, but after the eighth day, even that treat wasn't enough. Of course they stopped to set up camp, Yulja opting to sleep in the cabin rather than set up a tent, and despite not being able to stretch out, it was preferable to being outside. The howls of the winter wolves, the distant gales and the biting wind saw Skie curl into a quivering ball, and even Aerie paled. Nalia did her best to maintain a brave front, but the occasional dart from her eyes told a different story.

By contrast, Yulja found herself lulled by those very howls. It altered the soundscape and offered something fresh. Unable to hold her book steady, and with little in the way of conversation, she only had her thoughts and as the hours rolled into days, even the company of her own thoughts grew dull. Outside, the snow fell in sprinkles and spatters, brought down from the distant peaks, but eventually, they made it through the pass. It was not a moment too soon. The lavender had long since stopped being an effective ward against the stale air, but the thought of opening the cabin was too much for Aerie, Nalia and Skie, all of whom huddled together beneath shared blankets.

Yulja would be lying if she claimed the cold didn't affect her, but its bite settled around her like a mantel, and after only a couple of days, it felt more companionable than her retinue. It wasn't precisely enjoyable, but its discomfort was much more tolerable then what passed for a 'road' in these parts. She even suspected she might miss it once they were in Nalia's lands.

During those long hours, Yulja couldn't help but reflect on the past. In the privacy of her tower, in the indifferent view of the floor length mirror, she sobbed her eyes out over her foster father's death, over Imoen's stubbornness, and over the loss of her childhood home. Returning to Candlekeep had never truly been an option, and both she and Imoen made a pact to explore the world once they could. Imoen's tantrum over Yulja's decision to stay and make something of herself still stung more than she cared to admit. Refusing to listen, Imoen chose instead to leave, preferring to roam through the mud-ridden roads, sleeping beneath the stars, never knowing when the next meal was coming or if their throats would be slit while they slept or worse. What was so wrong about investing her share? One hundred and fifty gold or a stake in the mines, when iron was the most sought-after commodity in the region: how could Imoen be so muleheaded? But Imoen was as carefree as they came. She probably spent all her coin by the time they left Beregost, if they'd ever made it that far. Maybe Imoen had written, and maybe it had got lost, or maybe she was still mad. Yulja just didn't know.

Momentarily, she considered the rest of her companions, but then let them fade from her mind. Like Imoen, they chose to go their own way, and maybe that was for the best. Nothing she said could deter them, and in truth, she hadn't tried all that hard. Even with Imoen, she had known it would happen. Imoen loved the outdoors, whether rain or shine, and while Yulja was not as cloistered as Candlekeep's monks, she'd take the warmth of a hearth over a the damp wood of a campfire any day of the month.

There was something else she'd learnt about herself in those mines, something that scared her. Like Imoen, Dreppin and the rest of the youth of Candlekeep, she'd received some training with the quarterstaff, in the unlikely event that they needed a makeshift militia to augment the guards and defend the walls, but sparring had never been serious. Sure, a bonk on the head hurt more than she cared to admit, and getting a concussion from Osprey's poorly timed swing wasn't the best, but it wasn't real, not really real. In the dark depths of those mines, the tunnels chiselled out by pick and by hand, the torches casting their guttering light, it was different. It was damp, cold and hot, clammy, all at the same time, and her shirt stuck to her. Imoen's was just as plastered, but while Imoen's eyes were wide, anticipating what lay ahead, there was a certain thrill that Yulja just didn't have. Moreover, she found crushing kobolds underfoot satisfying in a way that left her sick to her stomach.

Back on the road to Nashkel, in the daylight, they'd chased off hobgoblins, speared a few, and she watched them bleed out, gasping, their pig-like eyes frantic as they died, helpless to stop it, but while she felt some small amount of pity, the hobgoblins had been trying to hurt them. Who knows what they would have done had they overcome the blades of her companions? Imoen didn't seem to care much, calling them filthy, and she was right, but something in Yulja shifted. The demi-humans were filthy, conniving and horrid, but they were still better than the kobolds. The kobolds were just… bugs, bugs to be crushed underfoot, and Yulja enjoyed it. Impaling that hobgoblin as he charged her wasn't the same; there was an exhilaration of being left alive, the vomit that followed, but after four or five dead hobgoblins, she just didn't care. But the kobolds? She _enjoyed_ it, and that, more than anything, made her want out. She saw something in herself in those mines that she never hoped to see again, never believed possible. Inflicting torment, misery, death – it made her feel good. It was a repulsive, sickening feeling, and she was horrified she could enjoy it, but part of her did and wanted more.

As the peaks became hills, Yulja felt glad she was leaving the mines behind. Just knowing that they were there was unsettling, but it was something she couldn't quite forget about. She needed to be near them, to be near but not too near the place that evoked such twisted feelings. Each day, she could look out towards the mines, and reinforce she was better than that, justifying the slaughter as a necessary extermination: the kobolds tortured miners. But now, all of that was behind her. In her bags of holding, she held the profit of her enterprises, more wealth than she ever could have imagined, and in another, she held her belongings, including all the various clothing she accumulated, more clothing than she could have dreamed of owning.

Really, Imoen was the fool, Yulja concluded. Her one hundred and fifty gold could have bought a dozen dresses and trinkets, but Yulja's share had let her have whatever she wanted, even Aerie. Turning to the bedraggled elf, she offered a small smile. Aerie raised her head, her expression pathetically grateful. It wouldn't be too much longer until they found an inn now.


	7. 7

7.

Arriving at the de'Arnise lands without incident proved to be asking too much, but somehow, the caravan guards were able to take care of it without Yulja needing to step out of the carriage. Aerie, however, felt the need to lend a hand and poked her head out of the window, and drove off the raiders with a few arcane syllables. Unable to rouse herself to inquire as to the nature of the attackers, Yulja simply fell back asleep and when she woke, they were in the castle courtyard.

The castle, as it turned out, was exactly as Nalia described. A stone gatehouse, towers, wall and a keep. They were greeted by some servant or other, whom Yulja made a mental note to acquaint herself with later, but they were shown to their rooms. Which was to say, Aerie and Skie both bunked with Yulja. Personally, Yulja thought, after so many days in a tight cabin, they would have leapt at the chance to explore a strange, new place, and a castle of all things, with hidden passages, secrets, and most of all, space. But Skie curled up in front of the fire, somewhat like a cat, her nest of blankets quite possibly more comfortable than the starchy mattress and harsh sheets that Yulja found herself in. Aerie found herself a cot at the foot of the four poster, and the evening passed without incident.

The next day, Yulja had the misfortune to meet Nalia's aunt, and after an earful that only an old person could deliver, she found herself less and less inclined to help. The cook was even less friendly, were such a thing possible, and the major-domo was… hard to read. Still, Nalia enthused over their project, and having conducted all manner of plans along the way, Yulja slowly began outlining and setting things in action.

Her first task was to survey the castle and its nearby lands, which took the better part of three days. What should have been a set of fun picnics turned into a rush for cover as the skies opened, the abrupt cloudburst ceasing as soon as the four young women were soaked through. Skie, whose only task was to bring the umbrellas, managed to leave them in the cart, which remained out of reach. By the time the girl had made it there, she may as well have not bothered. The picnic was bland too, the loaves not quite stale, but certainly lacking in that fresh-baked taste that Yulja had not only come to expect but demand. Aerie pursed her lips at the fare and was more than a little put out, but Nalia barely seemed to notice the difference. Yulja inwardly pledged that changes were necessary.

After scoping out what would become the first of three fields, Yulja explained the next phase to Nalia: having only just arrived, they would need to check out Athkatla, and scope for local talent. Alternatively, Nalia could invite performers to the castle and they could take their pick. That, of course, meant spending coin and after hearing the earlier tirade from her aunt about 'thieves' and 'tracking mud through the halls', a trip to the Amnish capital suddenly sounded far more preferable. While Yulja did not expect Nalia to know much about the local haunts, Nalia proved herself surprisingly well-versed in cultural geography, a thing her aunt referred to as 'slumming'. Until that moment, Yulja had not known the true dictionary definition of 'disdain' and she had grown up surrounded by the world's knowledge, or so the old monks liked to boast.

That evening, Aerie summoned the courage to ask about Yulja's childhood, something Yulja had kept to herself, but after the elf spoke of her own, it was hard to avoid the topic. Skie, also tight-lipped, spoke of dance lessons and sneaking out, leading Yulja to believe that Skie was perhaps more than she claimed. Startled, Skie apologised, and sheepishly turned away. Having heard nothing back from her inquiries, Yulja could assure her that Eldoth had not been heard from for months now, and besides, no one was going to take her from Yulja's service. At the mention of the word 'service', Skie grimaced, earning an arched eyebrow from Aerie. Nalia, fortunately, was elsewhere, but the conversation returned to childhood.

With a deep breath, Yulja described her childhood friend, and how they parted ways. Naturally, this led to both Skie and Aerie inquiring as to what led the pair to undertake such a journey, and Yulja haltingly explained that her foster father was slain, caught in an ambush. She had barely escaped, and Imoen, whose name she didn't reveal, had gone with her as far as Nashkel. Yulja chose to forgo the fact that she was far from danger, her magical double, the simulacrum, standing in her stead. Its death protected her more than if she was shielded by a shroud of invisibility, and the alterations to her features were as normal to her now as if she had been this way her entire life.

Both the young woman and the elf were horrified at such a traumatic event, but Skie somehow had the presence of mind to try and detect Yulja's accent. The one Yulja adopted was slight, a few rural hints, but with a slight urban twang. She simply allowed that she 'moved around', to which both women nodded. That was quite enough of that, Yulja decided, and considered outlining the next step of her plan. That was when Aerie started talking about slavers, and how they ran rife in Athkatla. This caused Yulja to stop cold. There was something in the matter-of-fact way that the elf spoke that made her throat catch. From the way Aerie described the streets, it was a wonder that Nalia herself hadn't been snatched while 'slumming'. Well, Yulja thought, that put a stop to that: she was certainly not going to send Aerie and Nalia out on an expedition. Perhaps it was best to bring others here.

Skie was the one to venture the proverbial elephant in the room and ask if Aerie minded the notion of a grand carnival, but to her credit, the elf smiled and started sharing stories about circus life, the kindness of her adoptive gnomish uncle, and other hijinks. Then her brow darkened, and she took the opportunity to thank Yulja, explaining to Skie that the circus had travelled north and shortly after arriving on the outskirts of Baldur's Gate, the letters from 'Uncle Quayle' stopped.

Yulja's expression grew heavy, and she quietly allowed that she had heard a report from the Flaming Fist through one of her contacts: an ogre mage, abducting people at night, his kobolds striking from their base in the sewer, was slain about a month or so after Quayle's last letter. The sewers opened out into the river, the sea, and the city proper. Skie, brimming with tears, set her hand on Aerie's, her own face pale. Yulja suspected that such a fate might well have befallen Skie from the girl's recoil, but chose not to say anything. That the ogre mage could no longer hurt anyone was small comfort. Inwardly, Yulja wondered about Imoen, and then, paused to consider she hadn't heard anything from any of her contacts north of Nashkel for some time now.

Somehow, the conversation brightened, and various games were played. A beleaguered Nalia, who spent most of the evening entertaining her aunt, joined them, and the board and card games grew more intense. It was, Yulja later reflected, a wonderful memory. Imoen would have loved it, she admitted silently.

The merriment continued late into the night, and came to an abrupt halt. With a great yawn, Skie spread out, and as soon as her head touched the cushion, her eyes closed and she was gone. Following Skie's example, Nalia, rather than crawl back to her room, promptly collapsed on the mass of blankets, and exchanging a shrug with Aerie, Yulja and the elf helped lift their host and friend into bed. As soon as she felt her mistress was attended to, Aerie entered the elfish reverie, leaving Yulja to lie beside the slumbering Nalia. Staring up at the blue canopy, Yulja heard the slow, steady breaths and what might even have been considered a cute little occasional snore from Nalia, her mind abuzz with raw, deep feelings that refused to given form to thought.

A while later, Yulja stole away, and making her way to the northwest tower, she scanned the stars. Whether by design or habit, her eye was drawn to the same star she and Imoen always sighted, and she couldn't help but wonder if, as they promised in their younger years, they would always watch for it, no matter where they were.


	8. 8

8.

Over the next couple of months, various 'thieves' tracking mud through the halls came and went, some being exactly what Yulja had envisioned, some not, some surprising her in the best possible way and others in less than stellar ways. Of those she considered, a few demanded outrageous salaries, obscene room and board, and other, less savoury requirements, but some were willing to accept far less than she would have offered. Desperation, apparently, was a key factor in the present economy, and while the Amnish elite were insulated from the current troubles which seemed to be hitting the southern town of Trademeet and the rural Umar Hills, those from the aforementioned regions seized upon the promise of shelter.

Still, many lacked the talent she needed, and while Aerie pursed her lips and Nalia paced in their bedchamber-cum-common room, Skie stumbled upon an idea. Why not teach them? The girl wondered, and that suggestion brought a radiant glow to both the elf and their host's face. Both were loathe to turn those in need away. But Yulja, who had already toyed with the idea and dismissed it, shook her head. The skills she needed were too advanced to simply be taught overnight, and besides, there was still the magic license, which supposedly only applied in the city of Athkatla, but Nalia had warned could extend beyond the city boundaries, to consider.

But Nalia was insistent, and Yulja chose to let it slide. She did, however, insist on auditions, and the various talents needed ranged from labourers to musicians, to jugglers and other acts. Skie, however, shook her head and insisted that there would be a need for groundsmen, gardeners and vendors. The last was something Yulja had overlooked; she also overlooked the fact she could charge each stall a tariff. In fact, Yulja realised, all of the people who applied had some skill in some area. Whether that was weaving, or cleaning, cooking, farming, or even lazing around drinking… the show of 'village idiot' always drew spectators.

With that, she inclined her head, and drew up a working 'model village', for the nobles to visit. Something quaint, idyllic, and needing the skillset of the everyday. Both Nalia and Skie's eyes lit. Aerie appeared more dubious, but rarely had either the elf or her mistress witnessed such eagerness. Did they actually daydream of playing as shepherdesses, Yulja wondered inwardly. Her puzzlement only increased as their excitement grew when Yulja suggested a flock of sheep. It was decided, and their grateful prospectors all but tripped up in their haste to sign on. They would work the land under the shelter of the keep, the model village erected and before long, they would announce it in the city. Yulja intended to package it as an 'authentic experience', a tour of rural life, an ancient castle, and of course, the grand carnival, which was still under construction.

Nalia's aunt was vocal in her outrage and denounced the scheme as utter folly. Nalia's father, her aunt declared, would never have stood for it. That was the final straw for Nalia, who snapped back that her father cared about her happiness. Before anyone could mention 'the enduring legacy of his lands', or how Nalia should wed and bear children to continue the family name, Aerie drew her away. Somewhere, on the top of the south-eastern tower, Nalia buried her face in the elf's shoulder, and the tears flowed.

At this moment, Yulja, who was observing the construction of a new wooden walkway along the gatehouse's upper parapet, received three messengers in succession. Blood draining from her face, she intruded upon Nalia's and informed her work on the carnival was on hold, indefinitely. Startled, Nalia's head jerked up, even as Aerie stifled a glare.

Wordlessly, Yulja handed her the missive. Nashkel had fallen.


	9. 9

9.

Nalia could not believe the news and could not keep from pacing. Skie perched on the mound of blankets, her face in her hands, quite unable to speak, and Aerie looked close to vomiting as she huddled in one of the darker corners of the room. Yulja read the third missive in the same grim voice that had held her since word first broke. This report was a little more forthcoming in its details, and for all the gods, Yulja wished it were not. The town was not simply fallen but razed to the ground. Not so much as one barrel stood, the report read. Not one person escaped the slaughter. It was speculated that advanced scouts made their way around the town and fortified the pass, and then a magical blockade was erected around the town itself before it was stormed. It was unclear how long the battle took, but it was unlikely to have stood for long, its palisade scattered.

By the time Athkatla could muster a relief force, there was nothing left. That 'relief force' became a punitive expedition and was broken as a host bearing the banner of the Flaming Fist surged out of the pass south. In a few months' time, the snows would seal the pass, but as of right now, it served as a vital gateway between Baldur's Gate and their army. The missive offered nothing of their numbers, only that mercenary axillaries marched alongside them. A fortified basecamp was being readied or was already erected at the Amnish side of the pass, but the mercenary units were ranging deep into the Amnish countryside, plundering and pillaging all in their path.

It was expected that the first advanced units would reach Nalia's lands within a matter of hours.

With those last words, the stunned silence that gripped the room seemed to tighten. Nalia all but shook, and Skie was shaking, disbelief painting her face. Leafing through the second report, Yulja scanned the scribbles and held up the page. A crude sketch of a golden skull orbited by tears, the skull apparently laughing, was sighted amongst the banners. Unfamiliar with the personal sigils of the noble houses, its meaning was lost on Yulja but not on Skie, who shrieked when she saw it. Aerie's frame snapped back at the shrill, piercing note, her hands clamping her delicate ears. After the first shriek, Skie shoved herself as far back from the page as possible. Gripping her shoulders, Nalia strove to calm her, equally mystified by the sketch. It was then Skie revealed her love of history, the history of her city, Baldur's Gate, and how that banner had once flown from its dark temples, temples long abandoned from the old city. The black banner of Bhaal, dead god of murder.

Yulja, of course, had heard the monks of Candlekeep chanting the prophecies but never paid any attention to it. Most of them were cryptic, and could conceivably have already happened, but this particular prophecy left little room for doubt. The dead god Bhaal before his demise, foresaw his own end, and sought to subvert fate. Siring scions through a score of mortal women, these lesser incarnations would reach maturity and spread chaos and death, and in the fires, pave the way for their father's return. The details were hotly debated over, and Yulja remembered the many arguments several of the more vocal monks engaged in. Bhaal's return was their favourite topic, perhaps because of its grim subject. In fact, it was so argued over that everyone had stopped paying attention. With Skie's revelation, Yulja remembered seeing it, and found herself nodding. The 'claw of Kazgoroth' and the 'horn of Kazgoroth', taken from the dread beast, one of Bhaal's avatars, were one of the main points of contention between the scholars. While most seemed to agree it had nothing to do with the prophecy, the unpopular minority insisted that these relics were of import, and if found, would empower whichever demigod, or 'spawn', as they unfavourably preferred, that employed them. Exactly what form that empowerment would take was the subject of many long, arduous hours, in which Yulja could get almost no chores or studying done, and eventually caused her to quit the keep, even going so far as to seek out Dreppin and be drafted into mucking the stables. Even now, the fierce debate over whether the horn should be powdered and imbibed, or simply stitched, which was a grotesque suggestion, to the stump of a Bhaalspawn's own severed hand, and thus, grant him or her the same powers as the slain avatar, rang through her head.

Forcing all of that aside, Yulja did not ask the question that should have been on everyone's mind, but instead told Nalia as firmly and as calmly as she could to instruct the gatekeeper to gather those outside the walls inside, and hope, she added inwardly, that none of them are foolish enough to open the gates and betray us. As long as they were well supplied, the keep should withstand a siege. It might be time to begin to consider evacuating, but if bandits were ravaging the countryside, was it better to sit behind stout walls and hope that a battlegroup didn't wend its way, or was it better to flee? But then, where was it safe to flee? Catching sight of both Aerie and Skie, Yulja forced a smile and told them that it was probably a tactic designed to invoke terror; a pretender using the old myths to establish himself.

The question in both their eyes was easy to read: what if it was real? Yulja didn't have an answer. She did, however, intuitively grasp that keeping Skie's mind off what might have befallen Baldur's Gate was vital, and that meant reaffirming herself as the leader of their little clique. In calming tones, she issued her instructions, mostly busywork, in order to distract them. Under Nalia's name, the servants and guards were to gather in the great hall, and the captain of the guard would issue an address. From her time in Nashkel, Yulja learnt that inspecting the armoury, the stores, and ensuring the weak points were plugged was one of the first duties of a commander. Setting up patrols and watches would also follow, along with billeting everyone and restricting access. The supplies outside the keep would be moved in, in the event of a siege, to help bolster the defences. That, unfortunately, was about the extent of her knowledge, and now she regretted tuning out the 'armchair generals', those monks that fiercely debated the battles and military history.

By the time she had finished, both Aerie and Skie seemed visibly eased, but Yulja knew it would not take much to shatter that. With a short smile, she ordered them to it, aware that were Imoen there, there would have been backslaps and salutes. Unlike her friend, Yulja lacked the capacity for joviality, or so she'd always been told. The worst part of it was, Yulja reflected as she watched their scurrying backs, aside from Nalia, Aerie was the only mage, and the only fledgling acolyte of whichever gnomish god the elf followed. Hopefully the keep would have ancient wards, something that could be reactivated. Yulja didn't like to ask exactly how skilled Nalia was in the Art.

By the time her orders were carried out, Yulja observed the huddle of uncertain and curious faces. Bringing everyone into the grand hall may have been a mistake but it was too late now. The castle guard seemed competent enough, as competent as her limited knowledge allowed, which was to say, they looked no different to the watchers of Candlekeep, or the town watch of Nashkel. They might be seasoned soldiers amongst their ranks, retired veterans, but there were also young guardsman who had probably never seen battle. She didn't like to think of the Amnish relief force. The missive claimed it wasn't routed, but utterly obliterated.

Depending on what was said, panic here could spill into a riot. While it was Nalia's keep, Yulja realised that the young woman was looking to her, even as Nalia readied herself to speak. Perhaps it was the flick of Nalia's tongue across her lip, or the slight shifting of weight, or even the darting glance that caused Yulja to step up, but step up she did.

In short, terse terms, she relayed the news. Silencing the crowd before the murmurs could begin, she instructed them that as 'citizens of the keep', they were now all dutybound to obey their liege, and by extension, their liege's duty was to protect them and shield the lands against any who would threaten it. Rather than calm the situation, this only inflamed it, but Yulja held her ground. Instead of raising her voice, she reiterated her opening statement, holding her a level, to-the-point manner, and refusing to use words with more than three syllables. Placing the onus on the captain of the guard, she informed the twitching mass that billeting would be assigned in short order but for now, they were to accept the captain's commands.

Handing out instructions, he ordered the reinforcement of the eastern wall, and with whatever briefing Nalia managed along the way, ordered the sentries to the wall and assigned shifts. Nalia chimed in with some inspirational prattle that set Yulja's teeth gritted, but outwardly, Yulja issued a curt nod, much to her host's relief. Nalia's aunt was nowhere to be seen, refusing to attend such a meeting. Her own door guard would remain with her, Yulja decided, and hopefully prevent the old crone from razing morale. With that, she caught Aerie's eye and headed back to their common room, Skie magnetically pinned to Nalia, or Nalia to Skie. It wasn't entirely clear which, Yulja decided. There was little else she could do now, except try to gauge the extent of Aerie's command of the Art and the favour she held with her patron. Somehow, Yulja imagined, from what she observed, both would be rudimentary at best.


	10. 10

10.

Battle, when it came, was nothing like the experience Yulja endured in the mines, and certainly nothing like the sagas. It was far more savage, far more brutal, and somehow, the sight of humans inflicting such horrors on each other was worse than the torture the kobolds inflicted on the miners they captured. Or perhaps it was simply more immediate.

They came with the night. The keep's ancient wards included protective spells, which had waned over time, and since her family's decline, upkeeping the wards was not considered a high priority. The sentry spell still functioned, though it was weak and required a mage attuned to it. Aerie and Nalia took it in shifts, but when the raid came, the alarm was of little help.

Lacking siege ladders, the mercenaries, bearing the banner of the Black Talon, the de'Arnise captain later revealed, resorted to something far more effective. Marching prisoners up near the gate, they issued an ultimatum: surrender the keep, open the gates, or share the same fate as Nashkel. The rest of the display involved a screaming captive crucified before their very eyes on a crudely fashioned cross, erected against a dying sun. Glancing at Aerie, Yulja mouthed if it were some sort of illusion; the elf shook her head. The de'Arnise captain, sickened by the display, raised his crossbow, preparing to put the man out of his misery. Paralysed, Nalia couldn't answer, so taking charge, Yulja forced the captain to lower his arm.

Instead, she had him shoot a scroll before the cross. Unfortunately, Aerie's talents did not run to hexes, curses and the like, so Yulja had to make do with old fashioned guile. There was a chance, she reasoned, that should the invader's basecamp fall to Amn, relief would be sent here. By the same reasoning, it was just as likely that should Amn's military be driven back, the only reinforcements that would arrive would be those belonging to Baldur's Gate. Still, perhaps unnecessary bloodshed could be avoided, or so she told Nalia, shooting the captain a warning look, and perhaps they could discuss terms, such as the safe passage of those within the keep, the retaining of arms, and other things she remembered the Candlekeep monks arguing about.

At the same time, a darker plan stirred in the depths of her mind: it was unlikely she could turn the Black Talon captain, but she could invite him and a select retinue to dinner, knowing that the mercenaries would likely leap at the chance to rush the gatehouse and staging an ambush. They might be seasoned killers, but the grand hall had only a few entrances, and once inside, the Talons would be trapped. At that point, smoke would choke even the hardiest of warrior. There might be mages amongst their ranks, so they would have to ensure that the keep's wards held firm, but whether Aerie and Nalia were up to the task was another matter. A battlemage shrouded from sight could wreak untold havoc given half a chance. Negotiation and diplomacy relied on maintaining the illusion that the other party had the upper hand, that she was prepared to comply. Her time in Nashkel taught her that.

The Black Talon captain laughed and tore up the scroll, declaring there would be 'no terms'. Clearly, she needed a new plan. The de'Arnise captain murmured a prayer under his breath, and Aerie, whose eyes narrowed in confusion, found herself informed that their foe was mad to plan a frontal assault on such a fortified position. As Yulja cast her gaze over towards the distant woods, she realised the Talons did not have to. Herding the twenty or so terrified slaves towards a cart of barrels, she felt her heart sink. Each was given a crude shield, and six wineskins. The de'Arnise captain swore.


	11. 11

11.

Staring at the strewn corpses against the grand hall double doors, Yulja found her mind wandering. The stench of blood was rife, the floors sticky and the walls spattered, but they were finally silent. Beyond the hall, only one of the gatehouse's doors remained, partially burnt and cracked, surrounded by dozens of what were once bodies. The captives' crude shields hadn't stopped the de'Arnise crossbows any more than the reddening dusk but picking them off hadn't stopped them pushing the cart to the gate, nor had it stopped them frantically hurling the wineskins at the keep's gate. Fire and smoke obscured some of the defenders' sights, but the cart had a hidden compartment, and those inside pushed while those on the outside died screaming.

One woman, who struck Yulja as being a mother, gurgled as the bolt tore through her. It was then Yulja understood the captives' motivation: it wasn't just their own lives that were threatened, but likely those of their children. The Talon captain chose to risk his men only when the gate was down, and whatever alchemical concoction was in the barrels detonated and tore through both the wards and the gate. Forming a phalanx and shieldwall, the Black Talons marched into the courtyard while its startled defenders tried desperately to fall back. There was no plugging the gate. The shockwave from the collapsing wards left both Nalia and Aerie unconscious, and as Yulja hauled them to safety, she could only watch as the Talon captain ordered a second batch of captives to lay more barrels at the keep door. From the arrowslits, bolts were launched, a few finding their mark, but most held back by the clearly warded shieldwall. There looked to be less than thirty Talons, but Yulja knew there could be more out of sight.

The advance became a hunt, as skirmishes occurred in the hallways. Remarkably disciplined, the Talon captain ensured his men held to their formations, and they broke off into groups of five. The keep's civilians barred themselves in various cellars, hid in nooks, and the de'Arnise guards fell, outmatched and overwhelmed by their foe. The slaughter was systematic, and as soon as the Talons located the hiding spots, they began sieging the doors. Yulja understood that they would be the next front runners, carriers of the alchemical oils. Some would be made an example of first, and then, they would be marched with whatever captives the raiders had claimed.

A deep, unfathomable fury arose within her. The injustice, the brutal, horrific injustice. She had wanted to build a carnival, to bring others joy, and yes, to make coin, but she wanted stability, to improve lives. This, this was the opposite. From the first attempt on her life to the death of her foster father, nay, his brutal murder, to the destruction of Nashkel and now this, pain and bile seared her. It wasn't right, it wasn't _fair_. She might sound like Skie at that moment, but the only ones who deserved this were the savages who wrought such destruction. And for what? Why? Hatred, cold, dark and hungry shimmered to the surface, a blackness, that palpable delight when she crushed the kobolds' skulls, speared them like suckling pigs over a spit. The blood of the slain called to her; she could almost hear it, teasing at the edge of her understanding, a deep, untapped part of her reaching up and out.

There was a way to prevent this, she realised, as if a part of her spoke from the caverns of her mind. It would be so very easy, absurdly easy, and here was how.


	12. 12

12.

After securing Skie, Nalia and Aerie in the concealed compartment of a great stone column, a compartment that had a set of stairs leading down to the foundations of the keep, Yulja told Skie to stay put, and meekly, the girl acquiesced without asking what Yulja's plan was. The plan involved the rope used to hoist the chandelier, a window, and abseiling, a thing she hadn't done since Candlekeep with Imoen. By now, it was approaching dawn, the whole assault lasting mere hours. Under the cover of night, Yulja held herself low and picked her way beyond the shattered gate, to the bodies of those slain beyond the blast. They still had their wineskins, a couple punctured, but most intact. Loading herself up with these, while watching for sentries, Yulja turned back towards the keep.

The Black Talons formed a temporary post, barricaded with various furniture pillaged from the great hall and around the hallways. The rest of them formed a secondary base outside the cellar where the civilians sheltered. From deep within the keep, Yulja could hear the thudding of the makeshift ram. It was a cruel jape, she realised, understanding that if the Talons wanted to break down the door, they could. They were having their sport, building the anticipation before falling on their prey.

It didn't take much to avoid their first post, and the Talons seemed content to stand guard rather than send out patrols. To their knowledge, the keep's guards were defeated, the civilians herded in a pen of their own making, and the keep was theirs. Yulja did notice one wandering along the halls, browsing the library shelves idly, a sword in one hand, torch in the other. She decided to deal with him later. It was the second post that interested her, and guided by her dark intent, she wove her way along the servants' corridors to the rear entrance. The command post was straight ahead. A couple of sentries stood guard, while the rest rested, feasting on the winter's meats and consuming wine worth more than a year's wages.

Those same barrels were loaded onto trollies by the servants, and with one such loaded trolley, Yulja chose the simple, most predictable course: release the latch, and set the barrel tumbling. Fortunately, the barrel was too heavy to heft upright, so the servants loaded it on its side. Whether or not its momentum would allow it to roll might cost her her life, Yulja acknowledged, but at that point, her thoughts were far too dark to heed such caution. Filling the empty barrel with some of the oil, she wedged the wineskin into its borehole and set it on its way. Naturally, the clatter roused the Talons, who rightly believing it a threat, flocked to the barricade and one torch later, Yulja revenged the fallen.

It didn't take long to draw the other Talons from the first post, and they predictably took the same route as their comrades. With the rest of their own oil, Yulja smeared the walls, rather than the ceilings, allowed them in and tossed another torch. That took care of those. The smoke was thick, cloying, and the walls blackened, but none of that mattered. Even the scent did not register. Knowing there were still a few more out there, and knowing she was running short on traps, Yulja needed bait, and beyond the charred, still smouldering remnants, she had exactly that.


	13. 13

13.

If using civilians made her as bad as the Talons, it was a weight Yulja was willing to bear, she decided, silencing the last vestiges of her conscience. Despite that, part of her still twanged as she considered how much those locked inside the cellar had already been through. And yet, the small, dark part remarked, they would not be safe until they were out of here, and when the Talons failed to report back, more would come, so she had best hurry. And she had best not leave any to report back.

So she released them, armed them, and fearful, angry, and hurting, her mob stalked the hallways, finding the last three Talons, and despite losing a few of their own, they tore the isolated mercenaries to pieces. Yulja did nothing to stop them, and the darkness within revelled. Aware she was close to losing control of them, she organised a systematic plunder of supplies by a few of the less able, and the rest she led to the shattered keep doors. Into the dawn, she sent her scouts, while the rest crowded and waited, antsy, exhausted and hungering for retribution.

The scouts reported that the Talons, the advanced scouts, had something of a camp, with a couple of sentries, and a small pen housing a dozen or so captives.

In that moment, Yulja made the decision about who she wanted to be: a leader of mobs, or to step away from the carnage.

If she chose the latter, and left them to it, when the Talons failed to return, the scouts would track the mob, and wreak a horrific revenge. If she sided with them, and led them, they would be her responsibility, and at some point, they would be tracked down and forced to mount a stand. Finally, she understood, really understood her foster father's decision to leave Candlekeep: a moving target, or a stationary one. He had chosen to quit Candlekeep, setting out on foot with haste, and that decision had got him killed. Yulja had chosen, all those months ago, to stay put in Nashkel, to build a life, a home, and that home had been wiped out, and would have cost her her life had she not gone with Nalia.

The nearest settlement was Athkatla, but that might prove to be more of a prison than a sanctuary. The only other nearby town was Trademeet, and the guards there might turn on them. If, however, she brought her makeshift militia and offered their services, perhaps, perhaps they might stand a chance.

With that, she ordered them not to let any Talon go, free the captives, and bring them back to the keep. She needed to retrieve the Lady of the Keep. Explaining her actions would undermine her, but the mob understood that having two mages on their side in the form of Nalia and Aerie might just get them through this alive.

At some point, Yulja was aware she would have to break the news of Nalia's aunt to her. While the old crone had likely survived, the chances that she would remain so were slim, and Yulja could not see a way to convince her to join them in their flight south. The harsh truth was that anyone who slowed them down was a liability. Aerie could only tend to the wounded so far, and she was exhausted. The keep was indefensible: if thirty Talons could crush both gates, what would the next lot do? Besides which, they had little in the means to repair it; perhaps in time, given they possessed the raw materials, but the wards were gone, and those, Yulja very much doubted Aerie or Nalia could replicate. The other option was to place traps everywhere, wait it out, and hope the Talons didn't return. The keep, was, after all, a small prize compared to Athkatla and even Trademeet, both of which held much wealth.

There was no one else to make the decision, unless she opened it up for debate. Perhaps, instead of assuming responsibility, she should allow everyone to choose their own fate, even if that fate meant electing her as their leader. It did little to absolve her growing guilt; as she tried not to glance, or inhale, the revulsion returned far more strongly. Somehow, this was worse than what she did to the kobolds, even if these people deserved it. Could the Talons even be called 'people' after what they did? Abruptly, she spun around, her eyes reaching towards the cross. The poor sod was still alive. Gods, she breathed, how could he still live? And how could she get him down? Quickening her step, she headed inside the keep and rounded up those gathering the supplies.

As it turned out, the heavyset man's name was Gavid, something she learnt as one of the older women gave him water and banded the gaping holes left by the nails, nails which Yulja had wrenched out, causing him to lose consciousness. Perhaps that was a mercy. As she gazed upon his sweat-soaked brow, she had to fight down an abrupt and violent urge to plunge a dagger through him. There was no way to rationalise it, and she withdrew, feebly telling herself that maybe he just had one of those faces, perhaps a passing resemblance to one of the Talons she'd slain?

As she walked away, the feeling lingered, clawing, its dark tendrils reaching out towards him. Whoever he was, he was no threat to her in that condition, and she had more pressing things to concern herself with.


	14. 14

14.

The journey south was subdued. While Nalia held an almost sullen silence, with the glare of one who felt they had not only given up too quickly, but they had _won_ and were running. Abandoning her ancestral home, and everything they built up struck her harder than Yulja first thought, but surprisingly, it was Nalia's aunt who was the reasonable one and told her niece in short order that she should return with reinforcements. That was not the plan, but perhaps it should be the plan, and Nalia brightened considerably. The trouble was, where would they find loyal guards? Training their makeshift militia, if it could be termed such, would take time, and the only guardsman to survive was Nalia's aunt's bodyguard.

Somehow, the pair and a couple of cats survived in what Yulja could only assume was a hidden, private sitting room, a fully stocked sanctum. Either way, Nalia's aunt refused to join them, claiming she knew the old castle better than any invader ever could. Setting her man to move the prized antiques to a hidden vault, she bade them a curt farewell. And so, Nalia journeyed with them.

Aerie, having recovered from the backlash when the wards failed, was able to tend to the wounded. It was fortunate that most of the injuries sustained were either minor or beyond her skill, and the few that grievously wounded were unlikely to survive more than a few days. Doing her best to make them comfortable, Aerie promised them that they would return as soon as they could and left them in the infirmary. Initially unwilling to leave her patients, Yulja informed the elf that there would be many more without her, and her place was at her side. Surprising them all, Nalia's aunt once again stepped in, and informed them that she would oversee the patients' various tinctures. It would take more than a few herbal remedies to restore them, and Yulja preferred not to examine them too closely.

Without tending to the fallen, disease would set in in short order, but taking the time to move the dead, what was left of them, would cost them precious hours even with so many hands. While it upset her, Yulja stood firm, and her refusal cost her the gratitude she'd earnt. It shocked even her closest companions, all three equally subdued by her decision. Explaining that the dead would deter the living, Yulja reinforce that they needed to be on their way. Too upset for tears, Nalia turned her back on her, while Aerie's stammer increased, as it did when she was passionate or upset. Presuming to lecture her mistress on how a passing necromancer could take advantage, or the unsanctified bodies might rise, the elf set her chin. Skie merely drew her knees to her chest and buried her face.

Losing all patience, Yulja snapped back that if the dead did rise, they might do a better job of guarding the castle than the living, and although she instantly regretted her words, she and Aerie exchanged glares and the elf turned to put her arms around the now-sobbing Nalia. It was too much. Yulja attempted an apology, but her words fell short. With that, she left to address the people in the courtyard below.

It turned out that someone else had beaten her to it. Gavid, an able spokesman and apparent orator, already primed the mob, not merely undermining her, but using his wounds to emphasis his words. Speaking of the terror that was claiming the Sword Coast, he fed their fears, and those who were in the pen with him backed it. By the time Yulja arrived, she had already lost control, and although Gavid didn't stand in open revolt, she understood it was only a matter of time. It was Gavid who suggested they move, stating they could not stay here, and although Yulja voiced the same sentiment, somehow, it seemed weak beside his baritone speech. Gavid did not suggest she was at fault directly, but somehow, when the mob's eyes fell upon her, there was resentment, as if she was somehow to blame. A few seemed to support her, but it left her skin crawling. There was a certain smugness, a certain superiority from Gavid that was even more unsettling, as if he knew he had the people in the palm of his hand and he could close that hand at any time. Nothing about him suggested he was recently nailed to a mast, and he bore himself with a long-suffering dignity that Yulja found not only abrasive, but made her blood curdle. She _hated_ him. It wasn't mere dislike, but murderous loathing, despising him more than she despised even the killer of her foster father, and for the life of her, she couldn't figure out why.

But practicalities demanded she set aside such feelings and try and muster those she could. At least they were in agreement that they needed to leave, and Trademeet was their destination. It became clear, however, as the trek went on, that Gavid never had any intention of allowing her, Nalia, Skie and Aerie to remain behind. They were just too valuable, and of the four, Yulja was led to understand that she was the least valuable, although quite how Gavid portrayed such a sentiment was beyond her. The words he used were long, thick, and hard to pierce, his sentences leading on from one another until the listener became lost in a mire. It was hard not to agree when he made things sound so reasonable and unreasonable, his validation always backed up by 'facts', facts that should be so blindingly obvious anyone who disagreed must clearly be lacking in mental capacity.

Aerie, still mad at Yulja, had confirmed that Gavid didn't appear to be using magic; he was just a gifted speaker, and with some small indignance, Aerie hinted that he made more sense than Yulja. She later retracted it, apologising, but the elf's look and remark still cut deeper than Yulja expected. Gavid addressed the people apologetically, speaking on their own survival, and using every opportunity to reinforce that they had to make sacrifices, regrettable as it was, such as not burying the dead, something that was still apparently Yulja's fault. Choosing to ignore it, Yulja focused on organising the practicalities. Without the keep captain, she only had the experience of travelling to Nashkel to go on, but fortunately the mob were not unused to camping out and knew how to cluster and set fires. The trouble was that while those fires would keep away the wildlife, they could also draw bandits, but the lands were wild and the nights cold enough it wasn't safe to go without.

The days were long, and footsore and achy, cold, dirty and damp, they trudged through the wilderness. Gavid spoke as if he was leading them and knew exactly where they should be going, but in reality, he fell back and allowed those who did know the way to guide them. This attitude even began to rankle Nalia, while Skie, who kept closer to Yulja than usual, would not leave her side, holding not only her bladder but her tongue. Skie had to be as footsore as the rest of them, if not more, but not so much as a frown graced her brow. At night, she planted her back against Yulja's, not so much snuggling up and rigid against her. When it was her watch, Skie huddled, knees to her chin, and ensuring her back was against a tree, stump or rock. When there were none to be found, she made herself statue-still, occasionally rocking on her hunches. Beneath her tattered dress and filthy petticoat, her torn leggings, something she was once avid on changing thrice a day, remained plastered to her, whether soaked by rain, mist or mud. Perhaps most telling of all was how she would avoid Gavid, refusing to so much as look at him, and whenever he roamed the camp, or wove between the column as it moved by day, she pressed up against Yulja so much that had Yulja extended her arms, Skie would have clung.

As a result of this, whenever Gavid approached, Yulja met his gaze evenly, and that unblinking, tepid brown stare of his slid across Aerie, Nalia and Skie, half contempt, half leer. Yulja could well imagine licking his chops, his heavy jowls salivating. She did not need to put her arm around Skie, but stiffened protectively, or perhaps possessively, near the girl. Not quite able to conceal his curling lip, Gavid adopted a wounded indifference, and burdened dignity of one who had bourn and still bore many offences, quite unjustly, but there was something triumph in those mocking eyes. Yulja recognised when she was being laughed at, and instinctively understood that by shielding Skie, she was showing her weakness and Gavid knew just what to target. As far as Yulja knew, Gavid's lascivious extended only as far as lecherous looks but there was something about the way his jowls fell, the beading sweat, and the smacking of his lips while he ate and stared in Skie's direction that left Yulja inwardly shuddering.

Perhaps it was just an overactive imagination, but she could almost hear Skie squealing as Gavid wrapped his thick, pudgy hands around her throat, throttling the life from her. That that was the vision that etched in her mind left her cold. The malice and hunger seemed to ooze from Gavid, but no one else could see it. Nalia, who felt repulsed, simply dismissed him as being a two-faced, pretentious creep and Aerie acted about the same, though both expressed it differently. Nalia adopted an air of indifference, and Aerie just withdrew. But Skie seemed convinced that Gavid was coming for her, and no matter how much time she spent pressed up against Yulja, nothing could dissuade her. It wasn't altogether rational, Yulja reasoned, as Skie could not put words to that feeling; there was no evidence for it, but Yulja couldn't talk herself out of it either.

What she felt was perhaps worse, and there was a hunger of her own, small, gnawing, in the pit of her being. This pit was far deeper than her stomach, and not at all physical. It carried with its own lust, a lust for destruction, and urged her to feast on Gavid's blood, in a non-physical sense. To drink up his death, a death wrought by her hands, breaking him, crushing him, devouring his very being without actually consuming him. This was more troubling than Yulja cared to admit even to herself, and the niggling tingle only increased with each passing day, a silent roar, a torrent. It wasn't even about defending Skie any more; it was about slowly, deliberately seizing the life from her mark, of stealing the most precious thing he had. There was an intimacy in that, the darkness urged, a sensuality greater than anything else, an intimacy in those very last seconds.

Yulja shook her head, freeing herself from it. Visions of the crushed kobolds still haunted her, as did the blackened and charred bodies. The memory of it felt _good_ , and that in itself kept her disgusted. As long as she held to that sense of revulsion, she couldn't enjoy it, and the stronger she held, the more she kept the sickly-sweet darkness at bay. The darkness came and went, almost sullenly as it retreated back to whatever recess it emerged. But the issue of Gavid still remained, and for once, Yulja could not think of a solution. The one offered by the dark thoughts inside would set everyone against her, unless, the darkness suggested, she could feign a wild animal attack. Perhaps a drowning. The slopes ahead would be muddy, slick from all the rainfall. She shook it off.

Nestled up against her, Skie shivered, and without thinking, Yulja wrapped her arms around her. The mist was constant, fattening to thick dewdrops and gathering along their clothes. With each step, another layer pressed in, the previous layer soaking through until a pocket formed between the fabric and their bodies, cold patches brushing against clammy skin, trickles sliding down. And Skie, who should have begged, berated and hollered at Aerie to intervene, stayed silent. Preferring to conserve her magic for a time when it might actually be necessary, and unable to shield all of them, Aerie chose not to play favourites, but allowed everyone to suffer discomfort equally. Nalia, withdrawn, grieving and filled with sullen fury, indignation or exhaustion, depending on the moment, simply endured without comment, as if the thought of pushing back against the elements never so much as passed her mind. As they advanced, the water content of the mud only increased, and ankle deep in the muck, each step became a struggle, not only to retain boots, but not to lose all cohesion as a group. Trademeet could not come soon enough.


	15. 15

15.

For a moment, Yulja thought the gods had smiled on them, for it appeared Gavid had disappeared with the fog. The sun returned and warmed them, drying the land, and through the broken canopy, the damp fabric became skin-crawlingly steamy. While Skie held back a sniffle, the beginnings of what could have been a nasty cold, were it not for Aerie's remedies, of which she made some passing anecdote about a circus animal with an allergy towards some conjurer's cologne and sneezed all over the self-important and grandiose gnome. That got a small smile out of Skie, but that smile faded as Gavid strolled up the mound, as though he were the lord of the manor inspecting his flocks. This time, he chose to ignore her, and announced in a grand voice fit for that gnome, Imoen would have remarked, were she present, Yulja noted, that the town of Trademeet welcomed them, and with that, he led the way.

Gavid could not have been further from the truth, and they were met with bristling hostility, glares and spears levelled at them. Unconcerned, Gavid demanded to speak with the mayor, proclaiming he had urgent news. He proceeded to elaborate on the events, weaving in fantastical elements that were so exaggerated they might have been bold face lies, but the mayor and town elders seemed to believe him, having clearly received troubles of their own. Somehow, they were housed in the various inns, and for the first time in days, were able to enjoy hot food.

The stew, meagre by the pre-siege standards, was the most aromatic and wonderful taste Yulja could recall, and finally being able to shed her filthy garments and slide into a steaming bath was a bliss unlike anything else. Aerie and Nalia enjoyed a closet bathroom down the hall, while Skie, whose hand had somehow found Yulja's during the approach to the town, and ever since, stared at the latched door, still fully clad.

By the time Yulja was finally clean, having heaped more buckets over her head than she cared to admit, the water was lukewarm at best. Adding more logs to the boiler, she emptied the clogged plug and drew a fresh bath. Were it not for the almost frantic desperation and panicked stare, she might have left Skie to it, but instead, she found herself undressing the girl. Obediently, Skie lifted her arms, and after much yanking, Yulja finally got her free. Turning her back to the girl, she attempted to rebuild the modicum of modesty that the journey had eroded. It was hard to unhear the memory of squatting down in the same bush, standing watch as Yulja tried her best not to look as Skie snapped off leaves, and all that followed. Seeing the scrawny young woman in nothing but her skin, and the mud, was hardly a sight Yulja wanted but it wasn't one that bothered her either.

Back in Candlekeep, the men were cloistered from the women, but she and Imoen often shared bath time together, even once they were older. It was one of the few times they could talk freely without constantly having to keep watch, or get told to 'move on', either by the watch or the senior monks. Even sitting in the gardens with a book wasn't a guarantee of solace.

Still, Yulja glanced back to check up on Skie as she gingerly dipped her toe, then slid gracefully in, shivering as the waters surrounded her. Her sigh was like music, and her knees lowered from her chest as she slowly sank back, her eyes closing.

Although their clothes were ruined, someone had donated hand-me-downs and left them on the bed. Ill-fitting, scratchy and too large for Skie, too tight around the chest for Yulja, the tunic and the dress were nevertheless well received, and able to face the world again, Yulja headed down the stairs, Skie trailing behind her.

The tavern was as Yulja expected, a moderate din with some bard strumming a lyre that may or may not be out of tune, and banging on a flat drum with his foot, only to play the pipe. The hearth was warm, the ale bad, and the straw-covered floor slightly less filthy than the rags that were bundled upstairs in the corner of the floor. On one table, Yulja noted that Aerie had made a new acquaintance, and her face was flushed scarlet. Yulja had never seen that particular shade on her, and Nalia looked about as affronted as if the mailed orc by the door had propositioned her. Aerie's acquaintance turned out to be a gnarly dwarf with twin pleats, and as Yulja approached, she caught the words 'Ye prissy elf', raucous laughter, the slam of a flagon against the table, and the dwarf's meaty hand extend around Aerie's waist. Aerie, rather than shying away, leaned down and whatever she said stopped the dwarf cold, but then he laughed, pinched her posterior and without missing a beat, found his face slapped in turn, resulting in more laughter. Aerie's swing held the same tone as if she'd caught a child with its hand in the proverbial cookie jar. Apparently, that was the right reaction, for he seemed to mellow and called out to Skie, who was currently hiding behind Yulja, inviting her to instil herself with a draught of 'liquid courage'.

Refusing to disentangle herself, Aerie pointedly ignored the dwarf, whose name, Yulja learnt was 'Korgan', which was far too similar to 'Kagain' for her liking, and with the lack of barmaids, he was forced to 'toddle off' as Nalia aloofly put it, and fetch his own ale. In the interim, Aerie relayed that the town put out a call for mercenaries, and Korgan was one who had answered the call. Apparently untroubled by his attention, she smiled at Skie, but levelled Yulja a somewhat cool look. Deciding now was not the time, Yulja instead asked what else they had learnt, which turned out to be surprisingly little. Rather than ask her plan of action, Aerie informed her that they needed to return to their rooms and rest, but to keep an eye out. Perhaps they should take it in shifts, since they had to bunk together anyway, she suggested, pointedly trying to draw Nalia into the conversation.

The young noblewoman shrugged, flexed, and glanced at her flagon, then decided better. She was going to talk to the mayor, with the unspoken announcement she would not so much plead her case as demand aid, whether Yulja approved or not.

Wondering how she could have lost all control over the clique, Yulja shrugged, earning her a round of startled glances and narrowed eyes. Whatever resistance the pair were expecting, she wasn't going to lower herself to. Suggesting that Nalia take Aerie with her earnt her a cool "I intended to", and at that point, Korgan returned. He squinted at Yulja, and for a moment, the icy dread that perhaps he was another assassin crept along her back, but then he slurped loudly, smacked his lips and slung his arm around both Aerie and Yulja, declaring it was time for a song. The smallest of smiles graced the elf, and rather than roll her eyes, Yulja took up Nalia's discarded flagon, drained it, wiped her mouth against the back of her hand, and joined in. Skie hovered at her side, shooting glances from side to side. Korgan bellowed with laughter, loudly stating "Now here's a woman!" and began to sing. Aerie's melodic voice joined after a few notes, and for a time, they were able to forget their woes. Even Nalia, who slumped against the window, relaxed, her whole being warming. Skie slipped onto the bench between Yulja and Nalia, and her back became less and less rigid, until finally, her knuckles weren't clenched.

With the last syllable a roar and knocking back the flagon, Korgan pulled Aerie in and pressed a sloppy kiss to her forehead. Before the elf could slap, kick, or otherwise adopt indifference, Yulja inquired altogether too causally what Korgan would do next, and after turning Skie's ears red with a description of a flaxen haired lass who dyed her hair red, Korgan shrugged. That was when Yulja made him an offer of employment, explaining she was subcontracting a taskforce for mercenary work. Now a canny light entered the dwarf's eyes, and after an "Aye?" he considered it, haggled, and the two struck a bargain.

Despite her renewed sullenness, from her corner, Nalia's look offered begrudging respect, and even Aerie's coolness waned. Whether or not Korgan did indeed like her 'style' as he claimed, they had their first recruit.

Yulja did not fail to notice the orc had slipped away sometime during the song. He looked the sort she might need if they were ever going to return to Nalia's home, or indeed, survive long enough to get there. But she knew better than to trust someone just because of how they carried themselves, and even enlisting Korgan might be a mistake. As Aerie excused herself, slapping away the dwarf's reaching hand, and earning another laugh, she levelled a look at Skie and understanding Aerie considered Skie a patient in her charge, Yulja jerked her head for Skie to follow the elf. For a moment, Skie sat rooted to the bench, but haltingly, she followed, her eyes darting every which way. Remarking on her skittishness, Korgan wondered aloud if perhaps his axe might help remove the cause of it.

That was altogether a little too insightful, Yulja pursed her lips, but returned aloud, "Perhaps". Korgan's look was much too knowing, but her own eyes watched for Gavid. She had no doubt he was around somewhere… Korgan was right: she was going to have to deal with him at some point. The dwarf clapped his hand on her shoulder, and somehow, in that one gesture, he communicated something that had been lacking from Yulja's life to that point: understanding. Finally, someone got it. Pushing herself back, Nalia rose, almost tripped and haughtily sauntered towards the bar, Korgan's gaze fixated both on and above her hips. His hand reached to stroke his bearded chin, but he held his tongue. Despite the lewdness, Yulja suspected that he wasn't just evaluating what each of them would be like in his bed. She also knew she didn't need to warn him off of Skie. Skie was, of course, of an age where she could make her own decisions, but Yulja couldn't help but feel the need to stand between her and anyone who wasn't anything other than sweet-tempered. The last thing Skie needed was another Eldoth.

Her eyes flicked back to Nalia as she swished onto a barstool, the blue dress making her far plumper than her full hips actually were. They'd all lost weight over the trek, but Yulja knew with the way Nalia inhaled stew, it wouldn't be long before she'd make it all back and then some. Maybe Korgan went for that, but somehow, Yulja doubted Nalia was interested, but then again, it was hard to say. Just because Nalia hadn't expressed a preference didn't mean she lacked on, and given the time they had all been through, it wouldn't surprise her if they all sought relief in some form or other. She just hoped none of them were foolish enough to get with child, get roaring drunk, or find some haunt with black lotus. Still getting so drunk they couldn't stand wasn't the worst thing that could happen but it did leave them completely vulnerable to creeps like Gavid. And while she wasn't exactly responsible for any of them, she wasn't just going to up and abandon them. Well, everyone seemed sensible so far, but who far did anyone really know another? She thought she knew Imoen, but the girl she grew up with wasn't the same girl that she parted ways with in Nashkel. What would Imoen say if she could see her now? Fraternising with an elf, a dwarf, a noblewoman and a waif, leading a band of misfits and in a power struggle with a bigot? Things had changed.

But she couldn't afford to relax. She had to find out what had happened with the Flaming Fist, and whether or not another company was on its way to siege Trademeet. If the Amnish had met the Fist in battle, what was the outcome? Surely a town of this size had to have some mage, some cleric capable of contacting the capital. She needed to speak with the mayor before Gavid dug his hooks in too deep.

If she was honest, there really was nothing stopping her from terminating her employment with Nalia; the conditions had changed, and this wasn't what she signed up for. She could just walk away, although perhaps, given her present attitude, Aerie would elect to remain with Nalia and Yulja could hardly force her to remain in her service. Not that she would even if she was able. Skie would probably chase after her, and somehow, that was okay. It wasn't like either of them had anywhere to go though, and right now, restoring Nalia's lands seemed a good a goal as any. At some point, it might be smarter simply to backpedal and wend her way back through the mountains and up towards Beregost, but who knew what state the town was in? Maybe she should just quit the region entirely. She could go anywhere, but really, where would she go? Perhaps hanging around would get her killed, but something just held her here, as if she was meant to be here, in the south. It was the strangest of feelings, but then, given her darker inclinations, what did that say about her feelings? Certainly, they were not to be trusted. Still, she wanted to see this through. For some reason, it was important to her. More likely, Aerie, Skie and Nalia had become important to her and she wasn't ready to give up on them, not yet, not the way Imoen had given up on her, or perhaps the way she had given up on Imoen.

But first, she should finish her drink. That won her Korgan's approval, and at least that was one person who wasn't doubting her or her leadership.


	16. 16

16.

There seemed to be a common thread running through town mayors, Yulja noted bitterly. While Ghastkill was incompetent, pigheaded and stoic, Trademeet's mayor was… stubborn, pigheaded and wanted her services in exchange for doing his job. Was every town full of ignorant, smallminded folk or was it just her that seemed to attract them? On the surface, the mayor seemed very reasonable, passing blame to the two leading families of the town, families that stemmed from a common root, but like all squabbling nobles with too much time and too little sense, a rivalry developed. The long and short of it was that the mayor wanted a pawn of his own, to run errands and seize something of value to both families, uniting their ire against him, although that inevitable consequence seemed to have slipped his notice.

What that article was, he did not say, nor did he say her exact role in it, but it meant more than she was prepared to give. What did he take her for? Perhaps Nalia would have better luck, but then again, probably not. If things continued this way, maybe the de'Arnise heiress would end up sharing her bed in order to gain what was necessary. That was how transactions between nobles worked, wasn't it? Marriage, a contract, gold, influence, favours. Something for something. And the visiting nobles looked down on her in Nashkel for being a 'filthy merchant'.

Still in a foul mood, and not caring how unreasonable her own thoughts sounded, Yulja headed back to the inn, where Aerie was minding Skie. Somehow, the elf had convinced the waif she needed sleep, and Skie put up little in the way of fuss. Little was still some, but it was something Yulja simply walked out on. Whatever Nalia happened to be doing was of less concern, until she happened by the town square and found Gavid in cahoots with some up-herself noblewoman. Clearly, society's rule about not speaking to one's better unless spoken to first was something that didn't apply to him, and that rule was made known by the senior monks in Candlekeep for all visitors and denizens of Candlekeep. All but the most noble, that was. A bitter taste sat in Yulja's mouth. At least Nalia wasn't quite so bad, most of the time.

One tenday turned into another, and Trademeet's mayor stalled and blocked her at every turn. The town merchants were unwilling to engage in business beyond the day to day exchange of goods, and the 'de'Arnise militia' found themselves earning their keep with odd jobs, such as repairing and fortifying the town and its walls. Whatever word of Athkatla there was was withheld, and no one any of them spoke to either knew or was willing to share. Yulja even considered entreating with Gavid, but thought better of it. Gavid somehow had acquired massive popularity and acted as though he ruled the town and many of the townfolk reacted as if he were its rightful liege. That in itself was troubling enough, but the town gates were barred. No one in or out, and it wasn't quite so simple as merely hopping the wall. Trademeet had mages, and aerie detected the presence of wards even before they first entered the town.

Exploring the sewers was a grim and disgusting prospect and not one Yulja cared for. The risk of infection was so high, she'd probably be safer in the heat of battle. Crossing from one rooftop to another was also out of the question, unless she somehow procured a long enough plank, which while possible, would raise eyebrows, and then there was the question of actually getting to the roof. The tavern attic did not lead onto the thatch, so that only left the streets. It seemed, short of scaling the wall and triggering the alarms, they were stuck. Even a rooftop crossing was only a temporary solution, and might allow them to move out of sight, but she'd have a hard time explaining what she was doing up there if she was caught, and it wouldn't surprise her if there were wards on the rooftops too. There was, of course, a limit to how many wards a mage could attune to, but she wasn't quite sure how many mages there were in the town.

And so, as one day bled to the next, Yulja found herself growing increasingly frustrated and anxious, aware that the army of the Flaming Fist was still out there. Nalia petitioned the mayor for an audience each morning, and found herself on the peripheral of high society, sometimes invited to dine, but always seated on the outskirts, she, too, found her path blocked. Nalia was expected to earn her keep as much as the rest of them, but given her status, her duties were commuted to those more befitting her station. Nalia hated every second of it, despising her needlework more and more with every passing day.

Aerie helped tend to the sick, and Skie, serving as Nalia's maid, also partook in needlework, her hand remarkably precise. In fact, side by side, Skie's work was superior to Nalia's in a number of ways, her patterns far more sophisticated. Of course, Yulja could not help but note that Nalia was barely trying, but then, neither was Skie, it seemed. Yulja herself spend her days helping those deepening the trench outside the wall. Hauling baskets of earth and buckets of water, ladling out drinks to the diggers, was menial, unrewarding, and something she was less than suited to, but she had never shied away from hard work.

She could have used her wealth to try and purchase her position, but that would have been counterproductive. By standing alongside those stripped to their britches and caked in sweat and mud, breaking bread and sharing drink, she was able to gradually build up a bond with them, and slowly, she began to regain the respect Gavid had stolen. As it turned out, there were many digging the trench who thought little of Gavid, his grandiose speeches serving only to impress the nobles, merchants and simpleminded.

Perhaps her time in the trench had biased her, but she gained a respect for the labourers, who were, perhaps, not so different to Nashkel's miners when all was said and done. At first there were lewd japes, and the crassness never really went away, but there wasn't a moment when she felt unsafe, but more and more, belonged to something greater than herself. Some treated her as a sister, others as the lady of a house, dipping their flat caps to 'Mistress Yulja', and some acted as if she was one of them. A number of these belonged to the 'De'Arnise militia' to regaining their loyalty did not take much. It seemed the harder she worked, the more Gavid's spell was broken over those in the trench. Unfortunately, the rest of the town were enthralled by Gavid and his nightly speeches and flocked to hear his views. Despite her warnings, Nalia still chose to attend, slipping out beneath her hooded cloak. When she returned, she always seemed troubled, and Yulja questioned how long it would be until she lost her.

It wasn't to be. One sunny afternoon, out of the blue, Nalia confronted Yulja, and leading her to their shared room, the De'Arnise heiress apologised. She had listened to Gavid and reached the conclusion that everything he had to say was bloated, misinformed, and sensationalist. He thrived on telling people what they wanted to hear, twisting it just enough that they hung off his every word, and used that popularity to swell his own ego. Anyone who disagreed with him was ridiculed, belittled and became the laughing stock of the town. After watching him roast those who debated against him, and grasping the subtly spite beneath his words, Nalia wanted nothing more to do with him.

Yulja, by contrast, she elaborated, had never spoken down to those below, equal to or above her station. Although Yulja's expectations were high, she treated others with fair mindedness and compassion, virtues that Nalia herself wished she had more of. The truth was, Yulja made a better leader than she, Nalia, ever had, and maybe she was just a little bit jealous. She also apologised for causing the distance between her and Aerie, a thing for which Yulja assured her was only between herself and the elf, and nothing to do with Nalia. Shaking her head, the noblewoman explained that she had taken Aerie on as her maid, pushing Skie onto Yulja, and while Aerie held no ill towards Skie, Skie's insertion into Aerie's role had left bitter feelings, feelings that Nalia had exploited. The closeness Aerie and Yulja shared was special, and that, too, was something Nalia was jealous of, and using Skie, who was innocent in all of it, she had driven a wedge between the elf and her mistress.

Quietly, Nalia confessed that it wasn't all intentional, and it wasn't born of malice. She longed for the sort of relationship that Yulja had, a servant who not only respected her, but wanted to serve and was proud to have her as her lady. All Nalia had heard growing up was her aunt's criticisms, her old sayings, and after her first governess fell ill and died, she went through a string of them. None of her maidservants ever cared to really know her, and while a small part of Yulja tried not to roll her eyes at this 'burden of privilege', another, greater part understood exactly what Nalia was seeking. That same void she herself felt when Imoen left; hadn't she tried to fill it at first with Aerie, and then, later, to some lesser extent with Skie? Putting her arms around the startled noblewoman, Yulja held and was held, and somehow, all the barbs and upsets from the days and their troubles bled away. Yulja didn't need to say anything, and Nalia smiled. Had they been boys, they probably would have shaken hands, at least according to Imoen and her vast reservoir of worldly knowledge, a small part of Yulja noted, and at that, she did roll her eyes.

Then, hesitating, Nalia added her thanks for Korgan, and the security his axe provided. Having a dwarven bodyguard tail her took a bit of getting used to, especially as he liked to stop off for a flagon, but she never felt unsafe knowing he was just a step away. Yulja smiled at this, and as the two held hands, the distance between them seemed swallowed up. "It was either him, or the orc," Yulja confided, and then it struck her: she hadn't seen the orc since that first day.

Sharing the laugh, Nalia offered to dine with her that eve, to gather the rest of their little group, and celebrate, not because it was an occasion, but because they could. Maybe it would help melt the cool that had built up, and ease everyone's minds, Yulja agreed, though she did not make Nalia privy to her thoughts or plans. The well of bitterness that had risen in her stomach burst into relief, and grateful to have her friend back, Yulja could afford to be magnanimous.

In truth, it only later occurred to her, as she lay in bed beside Aerie, that she could have taken the opportunity to tell Nalia what a little guttersnipe she really was and use it to break her contract. None of it was true, and she was shocked she even possessed such venom, quickly snuffing it out, but as she stared up at the timber ceiling, its beams and dust, she realised that Nalia not only expected forgiveness from her, but could so easily behave like this again, as Yulja had forgone any and all repercussions. Slapping her across the mouth hadn't occurred to her in the moment, but now, a small part of her wanted to put Nalia in her place, to break the noblewoman's airs. Once again, Yulja crushed the feeling with a ruthlessness that a deeper, darker part of her applauded. She shouldn't have forgiven so quickly, that part warned, and she should have hinted that she would not tolerate such insubordination again, even if she didn't force Nalia to submit. It was the part of herself that Yulja hated, the part she couldn't escape. In the bright glare of day, such feelings were subdued, but here, in the dark, they roamed and stalked, tracking mud through her mind, and unlike the mud tracked through the De'Arnise halls, this mud was black, cloying, and stuck, embedding her.

At least, over dinner, the conversation lightened, and Skie, who had come out of her shell, even ventured, "So… you and Korgan?". That elicited a haughty sniff, and reaching under the table, Aerie pinched her. Skie's yelp and protest as she turned towards Yulja, indignation painted across her features, was met with faux-cool indifference. "What do you expect me to do?" Yulja queried, to which Skie pouted, and then they all laughed, Aerie included. Whatever separated Skie and Aerie had been replaced with a reconciliation, and something resembling what Yulja imagined a relationship between a younger and older sister to be like. But Aerie's reprimand towards Skie for such cheek couldn't have hurt, as the girl didn't reach to rub her leg, and Aerie, Yulja knew, could be surprisingly strong when she chose to. Frail in frame, even for an elf, Yulja had nevertheless watched her hold down thrashing patients, administer tinctures, and set balms, right before amputations were required, or arrowed snapped off and tugged out. From the way Skie was smiling up at Aerie, despite the wistful note, she wanted to hear more, but that 'never you mind' look the elf shot back, and the way Korgan tended to handle himself around barmaids, left Yulja in agreement with Aerie. Nalia affected a disinterested curiosity, and 'girl-talk' was something that both she and Skie seemed to crave. Even Aerie, to some degree, valued their bonding time, but Yulja found herself outwardly smiling and inwardly hollow.

The void left behind by her best friend, with whom all secrets were shared, never fully went away, even though she knew she was romanticising it. Perhaps it was more the idea of a best friend; by the time she and Imoen were both thirteen, Imoen's independence had asserted itself to staggering heights, but the rift had started before that. Of the two of them, Yulja was always the more quiet, although, Imoen was like a cat, coming and going as she pleased, seeking out quiet places to sun herself in, but only as the mood struck. Equally, she could be loud, boisterous, and charge around brandishing sticks, mops, or whatever was at hand. Maybe what Yulja was looking for, that relationship Nalia tried and failed to describe, mistaking it for a mistress-maid exchange, didn't actually exist at all.

The truth was, Imoen shared what Imoen felt like sharing, and collected and kept secrets for her own entertainment. She would charge off on her own projects leaving Yulja behind, and rope Yulja in as often as she excluded her. Yulja, in turn, if she was honest, hadn't always included Imoen either, but most of the things that interested her held no fascination for Imoen. They bonded over dresses, but Imoen liked things that were new and pretty, not truly caring for the fabric, pattern or dye. The needlework was something she could take or leave, and really, so too could Yulja.

Later, it became about kissing stories, boys, and what went on in the barracks and bunkroom, behind the stables. Imoen was flighty at best, and none of the boys, even the visiting ones, really drew her eye, but that didn't mean she didn't watch others from afar. Most of the time, she wasn't _trying_ to spy, Yulja justified, it just happened, especially when one worked chores in the Candlekeep Inn. But Imoen did have a penchant for trouble, and sometimes, it wasn't unwelcome. Not that Yulja kept her nose entirely clean either; she was just better at not getting caught, because her transgressions weren't born out of boredom and the need to fill the space with drama. To be fair, Imoen didn't thrive on drama, but there were times she couldn't sit still, and in those moments, it didn't matter who spoke, Imoen wasn't listening. She would have liked Nalia, Skie and Aerie, Yulja decided. Gathered around a table, in a tavern with music in the background, flagons on the table, talking about boys, planning some hijinks… Yulja hoped that wherever Imoen was, she at least had decent friends.

Raising her flagon, Yulja proposed a toast: their quartet, an unbreakable friendship and unending companionship.

There wasn't any hesitation as the other three toasted.


	17. 17

17.

If Yulja were to scribe a tome telling of life's lessons, she would begin with how the calm was but a prelude to the storm, she decided in a moment of cynicism, as once more she was forced to hide her friends, this time in the attic, as heralds paraded through the street declaring that Trademeet was now a possession of the orc warlord Gromnir Il Khan.

It had happened remarkably quickly, and instead of a siege, or the storming of the town, a 'trade delegation' arrived with a caravan bearing much-needed supplies. With the roads to Athkatla cut off, a thing Yulja only recently learnt, but made sense as there hadn't been much in the way of new wares in the market, and food and its purchase, by order of the Mayor, was rationed and only available from licenced sellers since before they arrived, a caravan was given a similar reception to the relief force that liberated an occupied city. Which, Yulja thought bitterly, was somewhat ironic, given that the delegation hid weapons within the walls of their carts, carts which the town guards had checked and failed to find, and when they set up shop in the town square, something that under normal circumstances might not have happened, they quietly armed themselves and moved amongst the townsfolk, shrouded by headscarves and veils, long cloaks and robes. They then moved on the town hall, such as it was, a building that also doubled as the mayor's residence, and there, they seized the mayor, the leading citizens, those present at any rate, and overpowered the guards.

A second division marched through the town towards the southern gate, threw open its doors after subduing the defenders, and a cavalry force thundered in. In a span of minutes, Trademeet had changed hands, and the leader of the intrepid band demanded one thing and one thing only: the criminal known to Trademeet as 'Gavid'.

The change in leadership hadn't really changed much, Yulja observed, except that there were more soldiers, the mayor surrendered and ordered the Trademeet guards to lay down their arms, a couple of nobles spoke out against it and were promptly dragged to the town square where a gibbet was being erected. At the mere sight of it, two of the three began whimpering and pleading, but Gromnir Il Khan decided to set an example, and before the sun had reached its zenith, they dangled, slowly choking. It was a horrific death, but in his great leniency, Trademeet's new liege chose not to draw and quarter the dissidents this time but vowed that any aiding and abetting the fugitive would join him in the pyre. That pyre was something that Yulja could just spy from the garret window, and had she been so inclined, she could have sat on the gable ledge for an even better view. The skies were surprisingly cheerful, almost sickeningly so, and despite the few causalities, the initial occupation was surprisingly bloodless.

Gavid, of course, was nowhere to be found, and Gromnir's soldiers began a systematic search of every house, with every citizen having to gather in the square and counted. Any found without the wooden slab designating their number would swing from the gibbet by the next day. Well-armed, hardened, and with the poise and eyes of those used to killing without a second thought, Gromnir's soldiers were ruthlessly efficient. As soon as they had their slabs, Yulja gathered her friends and took them straight to the inn, after the search was complete. The rest of the 'De'Arnise militia' and the trench labourers had to fend for themselves. If any were foolish enough to shield Gavid, it was on their heads, quite literally.

The occupation lasted for a tenday, and after an extensive search, no sign of Gavid was found, and Gromnir began reading numbers from the dice he threw before his throne. That throne was an affair of hide and great tusks, horns, mounted on poles. The attendants were remarkably reminiscent of pallbearers, Yulja decided, but perhaps that was the point. Trophies dangled from those poles, relics of victories. The throne was assembled the hour Gromnir took office.

From the numbers, citizens were pulled forwards, and a great, bare-chested _thing_ stood by the throne, on a lesser platform of poles. A long, black hood covered its face, but it looked like a mix of a troll and an orc, about two-thirds the size of an ogre. The Nashkel carnival had an ogre, and his hulking mass towered as high as a small tree, his arms as thick as the oldest oak boughs. Whatever this thing was, Yulja didn't want to cross it. Once the numbers were announced and the unfortunate citizen pulled forwards, Gromnir had them undertake a simple test: the orcish shaman to his right determined, through breaking a bone cooked upon a small brazier, whether or not the person was lying, and if they were, they were handed to the hooded horror. Death, when it came, was a mercy, and the whole town was forced to watch as the heated coals were lifted by the iron tongs.

Only one citizen was foolish enough to lie, and the man was known as one of the more corrupt guards of Trademeet, using his position to abuse any he could get away with bullying. Even so, Yulja couldn't help but wince as his screams began, but really, how could anyone be so stupid as to lie? Gromnir insisted that he was both a fair and just ruler, and those who feared the law had nothing to fear; it was the lawbreakers, the unjust, and craven who would be purged. Remarkably, the bone snapped as 'true' every time after that, and with the headshake of his shaman, Gromnir did not hand the 'innocent' over for interrogation and execution.

Each morning, he held court, and the whole town turned out, summoned to bear witness. Any grievances were to be brought before him, and he would judge the validity of the claim. Those who sought opportunity over their neighbour through less than righteous motives soon learnt the full force of the law, and harsh reprimands were issued. For minor crimes, the lash sent a person to the infirmary, for moderate, a hand, eye, ear or nostril was taken. For serious crimes, one's life was forfeit. In some cases, a brand was used, and the eye or hand spared, as literally crippling his workforce was counterproductive.

His point made, and the search fruitless, Gromnir chose to shift his attention, and leaving a skeleton force of no more than a dozen guards, all in full armour with wicked halberds, short axes and shields, he rode out, conscripting most of the town to serve as in his train as both his servants and militia levy.

Aware that they might be split up, Yulja chose to comply with their new lord. When Skie's number wasn't called, she petitioned Gromnir directly, calling out and pleading that her 'sister' be permitted to travel with her, that since their mother died, she had been in her care, that each day she honoured her mother's dying wish. Impressed by this display of courage and filial piety, Gromnir granted it, and then pronounced that it was not his desire to separate families, so any who wished to join his train could do so freely, but be warned, he cautioned, deserters would be punished severely.

With that, a wide eyed Skie slunk in line with Yulja, Nalia and Aerie having already had their numbers called. Names, Yulja understood, were only for the deserving, and were earned. Until then, they were nothing more than numbers. Despite the terror that seized her, the cold sweat and hot chills, she was strangely okay with that. There was something about Gromnir's rule that was vaguely satisfying: as long as she did not break the law, she did have nothing to fear, and while Imoen would have been made an example of sooner or later, there was something about knowing she could walk down the street and not need to watch the shadows that was oddly liberating. Several of the laws were less than reasonable, but many were more tolerant than those she grew up with. One of the most serious crimes was the use of fraudulent currency and weights. Perjury was punishable by death. Usury was outlawed, and a set exchange rate for different currencies was implemented. Many of the merchants protested, most silently, of course, for speaking against the law could be considered sedition, and no one wanted to end on a gibbet.

The search for Gavid continued, the cavalry sweeping the countryside as the train moved south. As caravan trains went, Yulja suspected it was rather small, but turning Trademeet into a fiefdom would provoke a reaction from the regional powers. The trouble was, not a single word about Athkatla was heard, and Gromnir's soldiers spoke their own tribal tongue. From what Yulja and her friends surmised, Gromnir's force was not one clan but an amalgamation, which could include conquered peoples, they suspected. This was suggested by Skie, who observed that several of the orcish soldiers held different markings. Piping up, despite the horrors she shielded her eyes and ears from, Skie's love of history took over and their low discussions as they marched, helped pass the time.

With each day, they marched further and further south, joined every third of fourth day by more soldiers bearing the Il Khan banner. Skie's theory of a confederation proved accurate, as humans were spotted in the mix, along with several half elves, mercenaries, perhaps. A number of battlemages joined them, and though the Trademeet exiles were housed in two great tents, they were mostly ignored. The hierarchy came through a stubby nosed half orc, whose stunted growth still left him broader than most humans and of average height, but amongst the rest of the tribe, he was all but ignored. This left him with the disposition of a despot, and he ruled the servants tyrannically. Fortunately, there wasn't that much to do, beyond the usual mundane tasks, but having served in Trademeet, Yulja was far more used to it than before leaving the De'Arnise lands. Skie and Nalia, however, were not, and struggled to adjust. It was wiser to keep silent about Aerie and Nalia's gifting in the Art, and by now, most had forgotten her heritage, far more concerned with their own survival than outing an exiled noble. Still, Yulja mentioned to the despot that the pair were skilled in needlework, and rather than show his dominance, he simply grunted and soon, the pair were moved to tent repair. It wasn't exactly lace and embroidery, but it was still stitching.

It seemed, at least to Yulja, that their immediate overlord, like his master, preferred to maintain a harmonious environment, and he, like everyone else, had superiors to answer to. Making his task just a little easier, and helping to identify the talents of the newcomers meant better productivity for him, and so, Yulja continued to slip 'suggestions' in the most airy way imaginable by him. It wasn't long before the 'De'Arnise militia' and the 'Trademeet Trenchers' were in positions that were, if not suited to them, at least tolerable, and they excelled in these, knowing that they had Yulja to thank for their appointments. Over the next two tendays, their supervisor left more and more of the management of these two groups to Yulja, who simply told her what needed doing, and she saw that it was done. This amicable arrangement was not without its reward, but drew the ire of the other citizens of Trademeet, until the majority of them realised that if they bowed their heads and got on with things, they too, would be left alone. And that, more than anything else, was a recipe for survival.

As one day bled to the next, with the train moving ever southwards, the established routine abruptly ceased: finally, they reached their destination, the city of Saradush.


	18. 18

18.

Saradush was a city unlike anything Yulja had seen, but then, of course, her experience with cities was scant. Beregost, Nashkel and Trademeet hardly qualified, being little more than towns, and of these, Trademeet was the largest and most established. The exotic architecture joined by the foreign and familiar smells was almost overwhelming. But perhaps the biggest challenge was the news that had eluded them for months: Athkatla had fallen to the host that swept down from Baldur's Gate, led by the Grand Duke Sarevok Anchev, the self-proclaimed Son of Bhaal. The sack of Amn's capital lasted for over a month, and according to the merchants and traders that Yulja was once again able to interact with, its fate was so terrible that artists were already depicting the 'Rape of Athkatla' as one of the defining moments of the modern age.

It sent shivers down Yulja's spine to think how close they came to courting destruction. Had they stopped off in Athkatla instead of remaining in the De'Arnise lands, had they remained even a few months more in Nashkal… it didn't bear thinking about.

Still, she was alive and so were her friends, and that was something to be thankful for. Wandering through the market stalls with the mark of one of Gromnir's personal servants allowed her a certain inverse status: yes, she was a servant, little more than a slave, but she was the slave of the chieftain, and that meant no one was going to cross her. There were so many wares from so many different regions. Shou silk, Thayvian bronzes, and so many pots. Saradush, at the crossroads of trade, set in the realm of Tethyr. Calimshan lay to the south, and goods flowed from across the desert. Pearls, spices, herbs and wine all made their way from Calimshan, while tea, silk, carpets and livestock poured in from the rest of Tethyr.

Further along, the markets held slaves, mercenaries, and much, much more. The fabrics alone were enough to make Yulja gasp. Never had she dreamed of such finery, and the temptation to unearth her bags of holding and her fortune grew stronger with each step. How easy it would be to purchase mercenaries under Gromnir's name, send them north and meet up with them, a small, private army of her very own.

But why would she want that, she questioned the darker thoughts, inwardly blinking that she would even think such a thing. Her dream of restoring the De'Arnise militia was in tatters, and even if she could get a force north, how would she sustain it? And that was assuming she could escape Gromnir's wrath. Here, she was carving out a position of respect. Her fortunes were on the rise, just so long as her supervisor didn't consider her a threat. All she had to do was stay useful, not step on any toes, and she could earn her freedom.

Such a desire was naïve, a more rational part of her scolded, putting forth the unarguable position that this 'Sarevok' would not be content with his northern conquests and likely had already set his sights on Tethyr. This 'peace' could not last. Besides which, had she not listened to anything the merchants were saying? Rumours of a great wyrm soaring in the skies south of Saradush, somewhere in the desert, a mercenary army of militant monks? War was descending on the region, and no matter how much she might like the mandates that preserved Gromnir's peace, he was not the rightful ruler either: that title belonged to the king and queen of Tethyr, and no matter what fiefdom Gromnir carved out for himself, Saradush was no less safe than Trademeet and if she hadn't learnt that by now, she was not only ignorant, she was naïve and lying to herself.

…There were times when Yulja hated listening to herself, but it was harder to ignore herself than she cared to admit. Deep down, she knew just how unstable the climate was, and if the Black Talons were prepared to use slaves in war, she had little doubt Gromnir would hold back either. Manpower was necessary, and from what she'd seen, Saradush was larger than Trademeet, but the tales she'd heard of both Athkatla and Baldur's Gate made Saradush look like a rural backwater. Gromnir might consolidate his power, but Skie believed that he was in the middle of a campaign. What none of the quartet were able to figure out was why exactly Gromnir was after Gavid; had he achieved some indignity so heinous that Gromnir would march all the way from Saradush just to take Trademeet? Surely not. Trademeet might be a foothold from which to launch his forces at Athkatla, but Gromnir had not filled the town but pulled back. Perhaps there was pressure from the Royal Tethyrian army, pushing in from the west? But the trade caravans had not stopped. Was it possible that the merchants simply saw opportunity, or were there embargos in place?

She didn't have time to find out, but dipping a curtsy, gathered the goat's cheese and herbs she was there for, and returned to the citadel, such as it was. As she drew near, she had to admit that Saradush's keep was less impressive than both Candlekeep's and Nalia's. But it was in the middle of a vast expansion, and somehow, given Skie's observations, she suspected that Gromnir's clan preferred to wage war from their stronghold rather than hole up in it. Maybe she was wrong. Still more mercenaries flooded into the city with each passing day.

They had already started billeting them outside the walls. It was the oddest collection of lean-tos, shacks, and a mass of orcish tents. The majority of the clan, or tribal confederation, depending on how one viewed it, remained outside of the city, and that was probably for the best. The orcish camp had its own rules, and truthfully, despite the pungent stench of cooking meat and the latrines, Yulja preferred the camp to the city. The streets were too narrow, the dust caught in her throat, and the houses had small windows overlooking the winding roads. There were open spaces, but it was the back alleys and mass of foot traffic that made her nervous. At least out in the sea of tents, there was space to roam around, and there were enough other servants so that as long as she looked as if she were on some errand, no one would interfere with her. The guards allowed her to come and go as she pleased, there was plenty of food, and she and her trio had their own little corner, tucked out of sight of everyone else in the great tent.

The sun's glare threatened to spoil her mood, reminding her of the cloying heat and the rising dust. It hadn't rained for over a year, some of the merchants had said. Yulja couldn't begin to imagine that. But if water was so scarce, how could more and more people flock to Gromnir's banner? But who knew what the wells' reserve beneath Saradush was. She told herself not to worry, and to focus on the task at hand. Today was Skie's birthday, and they were going to celebrate. It might be small and only between them, but it was still an occasion.

Now and then, Yulja wondered what befell Korgan; the dwarf disappeared sometime during the announcement of Gromnir's annexation of Trademeet, and neither Aerie, nor anyone else, had heard anything since. Aerie was closed mouthed about it, but to Yulja's knowledge, no one had spoken to her about it. Perhaps it was just as well, but ever since, there was a shift in Aerie's mood. At first, Yulja put it down to being re-enslaved, but perhaps the elf really had feelings for the gruff old dwarf. She couldn't help but shudder a bit when she envisioned them together. There were just some things she just didn't want to see, but her mind had a way of filling in the blanks and posed the pair in some rather compromising positions that would have had her blushing were anyone else able to peer into her mind. Whatever Aerie liked was entirely her choice and Yulja really didn't want to think about it and wished her mind would simply _stop_.

As she headed back towards the great tent, her mind not only refused to comply but everything became much, much worse, as she remembered passing a stall filled with water pipes, another perfumier, and glass bottles filled with scented oils. At that moment, Aerie herself met her and she wished that something, _anything_ would happen so she could avoid their awkward encounter.

She knew she was about to rue herself for not heeding the old saying, and curse any nearby Djinni who might happen to be listening in.


	19. 19

19.

Aerie was, thankfully, quite oblivious to Yulja's thoughts, and any discomfort Yulja felt quickly faded with Aerie's news. From the other physicians, the elf had heard of a terrible battle to the east. It was so absurd that at first Yulja thought someone was pranking her, but the elf was deadly serious. A titanic clash between a blue wyrm and a fire giant from the Marching Mountains over the desert sands. The tales said it raged for three days, but Aerie was disinclined to believe such. There were several accounts of the dragon falling to the Fire Giant's hammer in flight, his ribcage crushed. As the wyrm crashed into the sands, the giant put his fist through the drake's scales and ripped out his still-beating heart and held it aloft. Onlookers claimed that the wyrm raked the giant's eyes but somehow, the giant healed.

Here, the stories grew more ludicrous. Aerie relayed, briefly, how the giant marched towards a desert monastery, and peppered with arrows, roared with laughter as no weapon could pierce his hide. Then, he laid waste to the stone halls, hewn from the cliff, intent on finding someone in particular. The onlookers swore that he bellowed for 'Balthazar', the head of the monastic order, daring him to defy his challenge. But when Balthazar appeared, his fist broke through the Fire Giant's wards and the giant grunted in pain. Yet, it was not enough, for the giant seized the monk in his own fist and crushed the life from him. What dripped from the giant's fist was not blood, but golden dust. The giant strode away, not caring for the rest of the settlement, but half way towards the mountains, he fell to his knees, and he, too broke into the same golden dust.

Yulaj couldn't quite believe it, but Aerie shook her head. Those same mercenaries who fought for Balthazar had joined Gromnir, the now master-less sellswords drawn by the lure of wealth. The tale didn't end there, though. It was heard and retold by several merchants who apparently followed the baggage train of the host of Sarevok, 'Son of Bhaal', that a second, brownish green wyrm was seen taking flight from the Marching Mountains, and Sarevok challenged the smaller wyrm to a duel, and with one fell sweep of his blade, severed the drake's head from its body as it swept past him.

Such a feat was surely impossible, but what was of immediate concern was Sarevok's army had marched across Amn. From what she recalled of her geography, the host would have passed the De'Arnise keep as they wound their way south, southeast. Aerie held her gaze with a solemnness that made Yulja regret her earlier wish. But what was Sarevok doing so far east? Why hadn't he plundered his way due south and struck directly into the heart of Tethyr? Then it struck her and Aerie nodded as the elf recognised Yulja's realisation. If Sarevok was east, and possibly headed this way, it meant he wasn't in the north, and that meant the way was open. If they moved swiftly, they could escape this whole mess. Gromnir could ill afford to leave Sarevok's host on his flank, if indeed Sarevok intended to march on Tethyr, but even if the two forces were to somehow forge an alliance, now was still the time to take flight. Anticipation swept upwards, her suddenly dry throat clawing through her. But… and Aerie had already anticipated this, there was no way that Yulja could move everyone. The 'De'Arnise Militia', the 'Trademeet Trenchers'… there were just too many. They were bound to be noticed, and Yulja herself was too high profile. Someone would notice and they wouldn't get further than a day before riders were sent to track them down.

Slowly, Aerie nodded.

That meant that the only feasible way they could escape was if Gromnir marched either towards Tethyr, or against Sarevok, or… a sick sensation twisted her gut. Or if Gromnir was murdered, the dark thought finished for her. After all, he was the chieftain and held the whole clan and confederation together. Without him, there would be chaos, and the strongest of his servants would fight to fill the vacuum left by his sudden demise. No one would be searching for a group of slaves then; in fact, there would be mass panic. And how much would it really take? Gromnir had his poison taster, his shaman, but what about his throne? No one dared sit on that, and no one would notice his personal servants cleaning around its foot, scrubbing the rug of last night's feast. That throne went everywhere, its bearers setting it in the palatial tent where court was held, on campaign, wherever Gromnir went, the throne went too. One life. Was the cost of one life, a half orc who had seen to the slaughter of countless others, worth the lives of Yulja's friends, those who had come to rely on her, to trust her?

Aerie put her hand on Yulja's shoulder, concern shining from those deep, warm eyes. The elf shook her head slowly, as if somehow aware that her friend was overtaken with darker thoughts. But despite that, Yulja understood that it wasn't Aerie's decision to make, and whether or not she agreed, stopping Gromnir now might save countless lives later on. Gromnir was amassing a huge host, and it was unlikely, no, it was impossible that he would stop here. His forces already clashed with the Royal Tethyrian army and had driven them back; a handful of warriors had taken over Trademeet, and now Amn had fallen, and Baldur's Gate was stripped of her defenders, who was left to stop Gromnir's advance? Sarevok? Sarevok was the one who razed Athkatla, who proclaimed himself the living son of Murder.

Here and now, Yulja had the chance to help stem the madness, to prevent more massacres. There were _children_ in Nashkel, children she had known by sight, and even a few by name. She had met their mothers, their fathers, their uncles, aunts, sisters and brothers. Nashkel might have been a small town, but she had made it her home, and Sarevok and his marauders had burnt it to the ground. If the stories were true, not one stone stood. She saw first-hand what a small, advanced force of Black Talons had done to Nalia's home, how they had sent civilians as living torchbearers, and nailed Gavid to a cross. She had listened as they laughed at the terror of the people she had invited to the De'Arnise lands as they huddled trapped in the cellar, loudly promising the fates that awaited them, loudly enough to cause terror in them.

Gromnir's laws might be just, but he was still a warmonger and a tyrant. Who else was there? Even if there was, did that absolve her from responsibility? She couldn't deny the terrible things she'd heard about his generals, those of non-orcish origin, mercenaries and battlemages, humans and half elves in his employ.

But… what if Skie was right? What if they were in the birth of a new empire, a fusion of orcish, elfish, and human culture, one that might bring stability to the south and the Sword Coast? If the mercantile city states were vulnerable, then surely, Skie lectured around the campfire a few nights before, fully in her element, now was the time to fuse the cities together, like a blacksmith welding shards of iron into a single sword.

There were times that Skie was particularly articulate, and her insight had taken Yulja aback. Nalia, who hadn't felt like arguing, merely shrugged and mouthed the word 'politics' at Aerie, who smiled, and rocked back on her hunches, watching the cinders climb in their upwards spiral, enamoured with stories, past or present. The elf did not care so much for war, but the way Skie recited the histories was as a skald, bringing the stories to life. With her hands, shadows, her face and the fire, she painted a picture, a personal landscape, and the struggles and triumphs became real. From that, she pondered aloud about the day's events, what all of it might someday mean, what it was to be alive in such a time as this.

But that really was it, wasn't it? To be alive. As Yulja and Aerie headed back towards the others, guilt nipped at her. There were rumours that Sarevok wasn't the only son of Bhaal around, but he was the only one to declare, and the accusation of 'Bhaalspawn' was almost a guaranteed massacre for the accused. That was, except in Gromnir's lands, assuming the merchants weren't lying. But there was a ring of truth to it; there were many exaggerations, usually about the glorious victories and defeats in battle, but the persecutions in Tethyr over anyone dubbed 'Bhaalspawn' was too chilling not to be real.

Could the prophecies really be happening? Was it a coincidence that so many battles were taking place in this one region? But wars happened every single year. That was nothing new. It seemed every other month this or that cult rose up out of nowhere, threatening this or that city, and in every corner of the world, there was some conflict or other, even if things were mostly peaceful. That's just how life was.

Yulja cast a guilt glance in Aerie's direction. Maybe the elf was right and she should stay out of trouble and continue to keep her nose clean and gain favour. Sooner or later, she'd be noticed and perhaps promoted to a minor court official. This wasn't the life she would have chosen, but it was a life, and it could potentially be a decent life. What could she spend her gold on anyway? Nothing that meant anything. Pearls, jewels, silks… those things were all fleeting. She'd already witnessed the price of making trouble. When it came right down to it, she preferred a land free of bandits to one plagued by them. Baldur's Gate had failed to stamp out the bandits until she had announced the bounty in the south. That was the truth of it.

Athkalta had done nothing to rid Nashkel's mines of the 'demons' plaguing it. Those demons turned out to be kobolds, but if she and five others could put an end to a small tribe that had taken up residence, why hadn't the mighty city state of Amn intervened to protect its own frontier town? True, Gromnir had taken Trademeet, but in the span of one tenday, the laws he implemented had all but eliminated the unfair trading practices. If the half orc fell to assassination, there would be civil war, his fledging empire consuming itself, assuming that Skie's predictions were right. That meant more death, more torched farmsteads, and more banditry. Things might become worse than before. Perhaps there was real wisdom in not making trouble. When it really came down to was the choice between supporting a harsh and heavy handed autocracy or enabling anarchy and banditry. No matter which way she sliced it, she wasn't Imoen.


	20. 20

20.

Twelve tendays later, things came to a head. The rumours that Gromnir himself was a Bhaalspawn now openly uttered by his own troops saw a wave of reprisals against any who dared speak out against the throne. Gromnir had disappeared from the public eye two months back, his great throne missing, but everywhere people spoke of a half elf assassin who had broken into his chambers. Some named her 'Ilasera', while others insisted that the assassin was a child of Bhaal herself. Further reports of a drow army breaking through to the surface up in central western Tethyr was sighted and was locked in brutal combat with their tree-dwelling cousins. Most vendors insisted that the drow broke through to some sort of elven elder tree, supposedly capable of granting immortality or godhood, depending on who was telling it. A few said the fighting stopped abruptly when the lady mage leading this dark host fell to the spear of one of the elven gods, a spear held from the Time of Troubles, when the gods walked the world as mortals, many perishing and dying, Bhaal being one of them. With her death, the drow fell back, and the elves did not pursue. As had become the running jape, although uttered in poor taste, those telling the tale joked that she, too, must have been a Bhaalspawn, and even the drow couldn't stay out of it.

Yulja didn't find it remotely amusing. It was the sort of thing Imoen would have laughed at, but at least her friends didn't share that sort of gallows humour. Attending her duties, and ensuring that others attended theirs, the days slowly slipped by. Still there was no word on Gromnir or his throne. Now and then a manhunt popped up in this or that region, a sighting of the criminal Gavid supposedly popping up. While he was perhaps the most wanted criminal in Gromnir's empire, no one was entirely sure what crimes he was meant to have committed, only that they were heinous and he was to be delivered alive for execution. Those who found and failed to bring him in would earn their chieftain's ire, but those who succeeded would be blessed with lands and titles. The offer was so tempting that now and then, bands of bored mercenaries formed just to go poking the countryside to see if Gavid would fall out. Most did not really believe the man was still around, or if he actually existed.

Yulja, however, felt concern with each sighting, and she couldn't for the life of her figure out why.

Then, one misty dawn, the news broke. Gromnir, war chieftain of the empire, had fallen against the sword of Sarevok, and with that, anarchy broke loose.

It didn't take long for order to be restored. The rumour was decried as false, and a string of horrific executions followed, from those petty lawbreakers who began looting, to those who attempted to flee, but most of all, for those who spread the false news. While Gromnir himself didn't march into camp, his trusted messengers bearing his seal relayed the mandate to all corners of his domain, and those who lost themselves to panic surely regretted it long before their end. Yulja, fearing that such a thing might happen, had already planned for a contingency with Nalia, Aerie and Skie. Their best bet was to wait, and not act in the sudden chaos. Only when things had grown completely out of control would they try and steal away west, pass into Tethyr and take a ship somewhere. Quite where they hadn't decided, but that was the plan. Yulja thanked the gods that they had agreed to this. Several of the De'Arnise Militia and Trademeet Trenchers were not so cautious and paid the price for their rashness. In a particularly vicious turn, the method of execution chosen was impalement, usually reserved for traitors, cannibals and child-killers.

That night, the screams tore at the survivors and the quartet all agreed they would never forget that terrible sound. By dawn the next day, it was over, those still alive on the stakes dying of thirst in the sun. If any did make it past the second or third day, no sound emerged, and by then, the stakes were taken down. No one was willing to risk disease spreading through the camp just for the sake of a point – several officers laughed. Aerie wasn't the only one to throw up at that particular jape; Yulja felt bile rising in her own throat, its searing bite reaching her lips before she could choke it back. Skie was facedown in a bucket on and off for the better part of two days, the poor girl shaken beyond words. Aerie offered what comfort she could, but the twisted expressions and screams still haunted them all.

But still, Gromnir did not return. Dissent rose, and the murmurs became angrier. Mercenaries were posted to the front, both against Tethyr and to the line of forts that were apparently erected across the last few months. No one dared mention open revolt, but many were now convinced their war chieftain was slain. Now and then, rumours of Sarevok's host emerged, and piecing together all of the sightings, it seemed to Skie and Nalia, that the army had backtracked in a great arc, and would likely fall upon Tethyr from the north. Nalia argued that it didn't make sense, given how swiftly Sarevok had marched east, if he did indeed slay a wyrm at the Marching Mountains, but Skie disagreed. It was a matter of supplies, seasons, and it was probable that Sarevok's forces had wintered somewhere, and were now on the move again. It was also possible he was waiting for something.

Then, Nalia finally snapped and demanded to know what a whelp like Skie knew; she might be remarkably well-read, but who was she to speak as if she knew politics and war just because she picked up a book? At this, Skie's face fell, her cheeks flushing crimson, though, not with shame as Yulja first thought, but with defiance. Lifting her head, she faced down her friend and stated that her last name was 'Silvershield', and she was the daughter of one of the four grand dukes before Sarevok seized power. Eldoth convinced her to run away, promising to show her the world, and believing that they were in love and would elope, for her father would never accept a man of such low status, or so she feared, a fear that Eldoth fuelled, she hesitantly agreed. Eldoth vowed he had a plan to prove her father did not love her, and together, they would feign her kidnapping: if Duke Silvershield truly loved his daughter, he would pay her ransom; if not, Skie had her answer.

Nalia shook her head, her lip curling. Haltingly, Aerie reached out and touched Skie's shoulder, and Yulja sighed, acknowledging they were all that young once. Skie's gaze lowered and her hands balled in her lap. Before her father could respond, he fell mysteriously ill, but the last letter he had from her before he died was one claiming she'd been kidnapped. Heavy, fat teardrops dripped from her cheeks and splashed against her hands. Without pause, Aerie walked over on her knees and enfolded the grieving, guilt-stricken girl. At this, Nalia's scorn broke, and she too reached out her hand to Skie's shoulder. Yulja understood all too well that Skie blamed herself for her father's death, even if, as the girl decried, it was poison, for all of the other dukes died or disappeared under mysterious circumstances. One was drowned after falling from a bridge, his horse rearing. A tragic accident. Another was crushed when the bell tower in the ducal palace collapsed, a tragedy that claimed the lives of several nobles, guardsmen and servants as well as some innocent bystanders. The last was killed in a duel over an accusation of infidelity with another lord's wife. All this happened within the span of four months, so how could it be anything other than a conspiracy, Skie demanded, her knuckles whitening. It was Sarevok, it had to be, the girl whispered fiercely, her throat hoarse.

Slowly, Yulja nodded, and gently gathering Skie's face in her hands, Aerie and Nalia both easing back for her, Yulja vowed softly that they all had painful, unhealed wounds, but they were here for each other, unbroken friendship, unending companionship, she quoted. Sniffling, Skie launched herself into Yulja, burying her face as Yulja stroked her hair. At that moment, Yulja chose to reveal that her foster father wasn't just caught in an ambush, but a mere day earlier, she herself was targeted and almost murdered. Skie stared up wided eyed; Nalia's brow creased, and Aerie covered her mouth. Yulja explained that he had altered her figure with his magic, and created a magical double of her, a simulacrum at her behest. The collective gasp from both Nalia and Aerie gave her a certain amount of satisfaction, for they both recognised it as powerful magic, though Skie was less familiar with the particulars.

"But why would anyone want you…" Skie voiced what everyone had been thinking.

Yulja didn't know then and she didn't know now. She shrugged, saying that she had put it down to an old rival of her father's wanting revenge. The truth, she protested, was that she really did not know anything of her foster father's early life, only that he had adopted her as a babe, somehow knowing her mother, and retired from his travels to Candlekeep where he continued to pursue his studies in the arcane. Oh, he had told tales over the years, but rarely spoke of Yulja's mother, never so much as sharing her name. Yulja hesitated to ask because she knew it was too painful for him, the weight on his eyes and dropping chest so heavy she could not begin to imagine what he had been through. When she was much younger, she never thought to ask.

At the mention of Candlekeep, Skie cocked her head. Her father and brother had visited there on occasion, though she herself always stayed in the family estate. Then she drooped. She hadn't heard anything of her brother either; he journeyed south to join an order of paladins headquartered in Athkatla. Once again, a round of arms reached to console her, and her shoulders slumped. They had all lost so much, Yulja acknowledged, glancing towards Aerie and refusing to mention the elf's ruined and amputated wings. Nalia confessed that her father passed a few months before she started searching for someone to help rebuild her lands. She was drawn to Nashkel because of its overnight success, and she hoped that whatever sparked its boom could happen for her, but really, she couldn't bear to remain in that old castle, so filled with memories, without him. Grief had driven her from her last living relative, and now, she might never see her aunt again.

Yulja nodded slowly. Somehow, fragments spilt out from each of them, and finally, Yulja chose to share about Imoen. Imoen, her oldest friend, whose continued existence she was so uncertain of, and the guilt she carried for not stopping her that day, for not going with her. The tears flowed out of all of them, for each other, for themselves, and they clung to one another more fiercely than they'd clung to anyone ever before.


	21. 21

21.

Finally, there was nothing left. All secrets were shared, all childish mishaps, embarrassing events, and awkward encounters were laid out. Whether it was that time, Skie accidently wet the bed during a sudden thunderstorm, or Nalia tripped up over her nightie and tumbled down the stairs, or Aerie had once mixed the wrong herbs into a tincture and set her patients belching for days, or when Yulja had tumbled out of the window into the rose bush, continued to roll and splashed into the fountain in front of the great library and sprayed some visiting dignitary and the senior monk, the four of them laughed, cried, clutched their sides and winced. It was nice to know, Yulja noted, that Nalia and Skie both bit their nails up until a couple of years ago, and it wasn't just her. Aerie couldn't relate in quite the same way as the three humans, but they did share some unfortunate and awkward memories of when they first begun their voyage into womanhood. Corsets, Skie unilaterally declared, were not actually the worst, but the awful garters and itchy, thick winter stockings and heavy woollen shift were far nastier. The soft, thin wool wasn't so bad, but the gales off the sea were so cold that as a child, she was forced to endure the thicker variety. Nalia was forced to agree, but neither Aerie nor Yulja had experience with corsets, but fitting garments to their bust was a nightmare. The rueful laughter sobered, ebbing into thoughtful and companionable silence, as each reflected on their memories.

Skie's stomach gurgled, a sentiment echoed by Nalia's, and the four went to find their daily serving of broth-stew and millet pottage. That evening, they dined together, fell asleep together, and curled up side by side, and woke to a bloody dawn.

They were given the order to move north, but not all of Gromnir's personal servants, only a handful. They were to return to Trademeet, though no reason was given as to why. Their superior, reluctant to let Yulja go, complied, gruffly bidding his reliant second farewell and safe travels. For some reason, a pang of affection ran through her, and she offered him a heartfelt salute in the style of his people. Chest puffing, he strode away with as much prize as if Gromnir had named him a lord, and Yulja couldn't help but smile.

The journey north was long, arduous, but uneventful. When they reached the town, they found it deserted, and their escort of two guards exchanged glances and went on ahead. They died choking at the twang of a crossbow. Behind the four women, the gates slowly rumbled closed, and carefully stepping in front of her friends, Yulja cautiously led the way towards the town square.

Heart pounding in her chest, Yulja intrinsically understood that if whoever was behind this wanted them dead, the concealed marksmen, wherever they might be, would unleash their deadly bolts before any of them had time to find cover. Morever, her skin tingled, with what could only be the activation of some kind of ward, probably binding and extremely powerful if it were enough to cause her small hairs to stand on end.

In the centre of the square, Gavid smiled lopsidedly at them. Yulja froze, but as her eyes adjusted, as the sun was in front of her, she realised that Gavid was bound to a cross, unable to move. Hoarsely, as if he had not had so much as a sip of water for days, he rasped, "So you came. More fool you." He tried to laugh and broke into a coughing fit.

Yulja felt herself frown, then glanced around. "What's the meaning of this?" Refusing to allow herself to be intimidated, she waved behind her, and Nalia and Aerie slowly fanned out a pace, placing Skie firmly between them and behind Yulja.

"What's the meaning?" A fresh, cheery and all too familiar voice called out. "That's easy, bufflehead." With a light, altogether too melodic laugh, a pink haired streak of black dropped and nimbly landed on the far side of the square.

"Imoen?" Yulja's eyes bulged.

"Ha! You should see the look on your face. Priceless. Totally worth setting all this up. I should have had a painter capture it."

"You're alive…" Yulja whispered, then sobbed, "Imoen, thank the gods you're safe."

Dusting her shoulder off, Imoen glanced to the side, "Don't go getting all sentimental on me, Yul. 'Course I'm alive. What did you think?"

"You never wrote," Yulja heard her voice crack. "You promised… I thought…"

Biting the corner of her lip, Imoen frowned. "Hey, this isn't how you're supposed to react. I've planned this for months. Seriously, Yul, lighten up. This is supposed to be all dark and mysterious, the enigmatic reveal. Sorry I didn't write. I meant to, you know." She scrubbed her right hand through her hair, and as she stepped out of the shadows, Yulja's stare widened.

"Oh this?" Imoen waved her left… hand up by her temple. She was missing an eye, and a pallid beige horn protruded at an angle, off-centre from her forehead. The hand, a grotesque scaled claw, pulsing black, she waved. "Pretty neat, huh? Bet you can't guess what this is."

"The Claw of Kazgoroth!" Skie blurted, reaching around.

"Gold star for you." Imoen frowned. "How'd you know? Oh, I'm Imoen by the way. Yul probably hasn't mentioned me. Doesn't tend to open up about things like this. You must be Skie, I'm guessing, last of the Silvershields. Hi."

"Hullo." Skie returned, and ducked back around Yulja.

"Anyways," Imoen followed up with, "Hey, Yul. Quit staring. You're starting to make me uncomfortable." Iron rivets set into black leather clad her from neck to toe. Three earrings hung from her right lobe, and a long tattoo crept down the left side of her neck. It looked suspiciously like the claw that protruded from her vambraced arm. "I'd introduce this lot," she jerked her thumb in a vague direction, "But we've got some talkin' to get to first. Business." Ice entered her eyes as she turned to Gavid. "Hey there mister child-killer. Thought you could just get away with it, didn'tcha? Reckoned you could just suffocate those young women, so slight and dress them up in those gauzy white dresses like it was their wedding night, and choke the life from them as you violated them. But that wasn't enough, was it? You got a taste for the screams of those who were even younger. Why'd you do it? Don't answer: don't care. But guess what? Here's what it feels like. Hey, Monty!"

Yulja's eyes jerked to the rope around Gavid's throat, a rope that bit into his throat and slowly turned him purple. Aerie turned away, Skie shielded her eyes, but Nalia watched on with grim determination, the same determination that held Yulja. If what Imoen said was true, she had no pity.

"I reckon maybe… one minute for each victim? Nah, that'd take too long." Imoen rotated the claw about her head, and there was a sickening crunch as the rope cracked Gavid's neck. The heavyset man dissolved into golden dust; catching it in the wind, Imoen laughed. "Gods, I've missed you, Yul. It's really sad that it's come down to this, but you had to know I couldn't let it end any other way."

"What in the nine hells are you talking about?" Yulja snapped, feeling her teeth grit as her fists balled. How was Imoen always able to get under her skin?

"…You…" Skie stuttered, stepping back, "You're… you're one of them…"

Yulja rounded on her, confusion and hurt playing across her face.

"Gods, you're right." Nalia forced out through her clamped jaw.

"It… it does make sense," Aerie whispered, hanging her head.

"What. Are. You. Talking. About?"

"Give it up, sis," Imoen called, laughing from behind her. "Can't believe you didn't figure it out. C'mon, you must've had the dreams, felt the urge, it's in all of us. Kill, kill, kill."

"What?" Yulja jerked back around, side on to Imoen, side on to her friends. "I don't understand…"

"Your birth mother…" Skie whispered.

"See, she's smart, she gets it. You would too, if you weren't in denial."

"Come on, _sis_ , never wondered who our father was? It's not like his name isn't all over the place nowadays."

"Will you just shut up and get to the point, Imoen." That tone actually saw Imoen take a step back, and momentary doubt flashed across her face.

"Gods, you really don't know…"

"Bhaal." Nalia interjected coldly. "She's talking about Bhaal."

"Right, of course she is. Obviously, my father is the dead god of murder. How stupid do you think I am, Nal?"

"Nal and Yul, I kinda like it. It's got a certain ring. Not the same as Yul and Im, Im and Yul."

"Will you just shut up for a minute?" Yulja snapped. "There's no way I could be. I mean, me?" She continued to address Nalia, realising that she was addressing herself.

"Oh, there it goes. Right there. Yup, you remember those kobolds, sis. Remember how you gutted them. How about the hobgoblins you speared on the road to Nashkel. It's not some great revelation. You enjoyed it. Guess what? I enjoy killing too. Not all killing, but some. It depends, I guess. But come on, it was laid out clearly in front of you. It couldn't have been any clearer. Two orphans, raised in the one place that those prophecies were talked about. That's all anyone ever talked about there. Come on, say it with me. 'But in his doom he will spawn a score of mortal progeny, chaos will be–'"

"No." Yulja silenced her, waving her hand across her chest. "I'm not a murderer. I never killed except in self defence."

"Bet you wanted to though."

She couldn't argue with that.

"Anyway, that's not really why we're here. Just wanted to make sure you knew, 'cause of, you know, what has to come next."

"What now?" Irritation flared again.

"Oh no," Skie breathed, grabbing her Yulja's arm. "Please… please, I-Imoen, you can't."

"Sorry, kiddo, kind of have to." Dramatically, Imoen swept her hair to the side and advanced a step.

"W-wait! What about Sa-Sarevok, Gromnir?" Aerie interjected.

"Did them in too. Easier than you'd think. Ole Monty up there poisoned green-butt's throne, that's Gromnir in case you weren't paying attention," Imoen relayed to Nalia, who glowered in turn. Imoen flashed her a brilliant, toothy grin. "And as for dear old Sarevok? Well, took him down too. That was a bit trickier, but his problem was he thinks too linear. 'Scue me, thought. Gotta use that past tense now." Imoen advanced another step.

"Where are…" Yulja finally questioned, her words so quiet the distant breeze seemed louder. Lifting her head, she gently disentangled Skie's arm and turned to face her childhood friend, spreading her arms at her side.

"Khalid, Jaheira? Well, Khalid's somewhere up there, I think." Imoen squinted, "And Jaheira… didn't make it. She got turned to stone and shattered shortly after we rescued Branwen. Say hullo Bran!" No answer was forthcoming, but from Khalid's direction, Yulja could make out what she thought was a regretful silhouette. "Welp, Xzar also got stoned, 'scue me, turned to stone, also by Tranzig, but we did him in good, hoo boy. Let me tell you, it took _days_ for him to die. Gut wound, very nasty. Monty taught me that one, and I had a _lot_ of practice. 'Course, we cut off his fingers, tongue and vocal cords, and an eye or two. I think it was both. Mon?"

What appeared to be an annoyed sword waved from the parapet. "Two. I was right. So anyways, then there was Shar-Teel. Nope, Kivan, then Shar-Teel. Kivan lost someone very dear to Tazok, he was Sarevok's half ogre lackey, and believe you me, when we finally caught up to him, we spilled his guts, literally, and made him walk across burning coals. Twas the least we could do after what he did to Kivan's wife."

Yulja had to keep from gritting her teeth. "Who are you?"

"Same old me, sis. Just without you." Imoen's eyes hardened. "You know, things might have been different if you'd come along. Every time we ran into one of these monsters, I thought to myself 'What would Yul say?' and every time, I remembered: you weren't there."

"I thought of you too, Im. Every day."

"Well, I guess we're even then." Imoen shrugged. "Well, Shar-Teel's da, she hated him by the way, worked for Sarevok, and helped take out Dukes Silvershield and that other fellow, with the wide belt."

"…Belt?" Skie ventured from behind Yulja.

"Yeah, that's it." Imoen smirked at her own joke. "Duke Belt. What a name, but hey, what can you do? And Coran, I almost forgot Coran. He's a bit forgetful these days. We found him right outside of Cloakwood on the road to the 'Gate. That's what the locals call the city, sis. He was half eaten by a wyvern, but we found a gnome who helped patch him back together. He proved quite the tour guide of the city, took us to all the lesser known haunts, if you catch my drift."

"Stop it."

"Don't go judging me, I knew you wouldn't want me selling myself, so I didn't. But we can't all be blessed with smarts like you, sis." A twinge of bitterness caught her. "Maybe I should've stayed with you, grown rich off the labour of others. Didn't work out so well for you now, did it?"

"Why'd you do it?" Yulja jerked her brow towards the horn.

"Eh, curious. Bored, maybe. Wanted to see if it was real. Take your pick."

"The real reason, Imoen."

"Fine." She shrugged, glancing away. "I had to know… really know if it was true. The dark voice inside… it wasn't enough. But blood calls out to blood, they say, and well, if I really was one of our da's spawn, well, I figured his avatar's relics'd work on me, maybe even give me an edge."

"So you cut off your own hand?" Coldness filled her every word.

"Oh, what, this?" Imoen lifted her left forearm. "Nah, that kind of happened. Sort of embarrassing, really. Don't want to talk about it. Since it's you, I'll give you a hint though. I dropped something on it. Well, see, we were… we flooded the mines in Cloakwood. Oh, you don't know about those. Did you even hear of the 'Iron Throne'? Where have you been hiding? Gods, there's just so much. Look, the key got stuck. I was thinking of you and what you might do. You wouldn't let others risk their lives, so neither did I. The beam fell down, smashed up my hand and I had to cut it off or I'd have drowned, 'kay? Dumb story, dumb Immy, should have known better. It was my own stupid fault."

"I'm sorry…"

"Oh, spare me the pity. Please, Yul. It hurt bad enough the first time. The claw was actually a boon. It lets me do all kinds of neat tricks, like this. Hey, Monty?"

This time, the resignation was audible. What appeared to be a shaft was launched from some hidden device and it sailed over Imoen's head and smashed into the gibbet, and bounced off.

"Monty, you told me you had it all set up! Oh my gods, you can cock a crossbow while running from an ogre mage in a sewer, but you can't manage simple trigonometry? Were you raised in a barn?!" Imoen hollered, then winked at Yulja. "Gets him every time," she confided, then sighed. "Well, there goes my halberd. Spiked hammer-axe on a pole."

"I know what a halberd is."

"Oh good. 'Cause, you know, there's also this." Imoen hefted a cracked and faded tome. "Yup, you guessed it. Took it right off Xzar's smashed hands. Kind of funny when you think about it. Everything else: poof, stone. But this thing? Fire won't touch it, water won't drown it, and stone won't go near it. Like its warded or something. Who'd of thunk it."

"It's getting old." Yulja grated. "Stop showing off."

"Fine." Coldly, Imoen drew the blade at her side. "I'll make it fair, for old time's sake. Pick one. Sword or spells."

"No."

"Seriously, after all this, you're refusing? We're the last two. Only one of us gets to walk away. Look, I'll make this simple. You face me, and those three go free. You don't, they don't."

"Playing the villainess doesn't suit you."

Imoen looked as if she'd been slapped, but recovered enough to snap back, "Neither does playing the sanctimonious priest."

"I don't want it."

"What?" Imoen frowned.

"The throne. I don't want it. I relinquish my claim."

"Can you… are you – I don't think that's allowed, sis."

"I don't care. I don't want Bhaal's throne. Take it, it's yours. I… abdicate."

Imoen chewed her lip thoughtfully. "Well, I guess, I mean, we are heirs of Murder, and that kind of makes sense. Don't you have to swear it or something, you know, if you're a sovereign?"

"Okay, then, on the throne of Bhaal, by the claw and horn of Kazgoroth, I, Yulja, daughter… of …Bhaal, hereby, now and forever, renounce all claim to my birthright. I reject this… contest, and I… withdraw my candidacy. As the gods are my witness, I relinquish our father's legacy to you, Imoen, daughter of Bhaal. All hail the new goddess of murder."

"Hmm, I guess that'll do." Imoen glanced around. After a few moments, she tapped her foot. "Aren't the skies supposed to darken, green lightning streak across the sky, and the earth tremble? Something? Anyone? Helloooooo. Gods, are you listening? We're not gonna fight any more."

"Um… maybe… you have to accept it?" Skie ventured.

"Oh! Right, good call." Imoen nodded, shook herself and rose up and down on the balls of her feet.

"Wait," Yulja interjected, her eyes holding Imoen's. "Im, are you sure about this? Is this what you really want?"

"Beats turning down beds, sis." She shrugged, inhaled, and shrugged again. "It's kind of gotten dull. There's so much more to see, and it's just… too small here. I kinda need to step out. So yeah, I do."

Slowly, Yulja nodded.

"Welp, here goes. I, Imoen, heh, daughter of Bhaal, claim the throne of Bhaal as my rightful and lawful inheritance. 'Cause, no one else is left, 'kay? And I'm not killing Yulja, so you gods can either accept it, or you can take a hike, because I'm taking what's mine one way or the other. The rest of them are gone. Dead, dead, dead, so that's that. Game over. I win. Got it?"

Now, the heavens did rumble, and with the gathering clouds, a being of majestic light appeared, a blue skinned solar crowned with orange fire. Flexing her resplendent white wings, she announced, "The gods have heard–"

"We already decided that," Imoen interrupted. "Look, I know I've been waiting months for this, but we're going to have to cut this short."

"Im?" Yulja stared.

"Not now, sis." Imoen glared, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. "I'm still mortal, so let's hurry this up, because I suddenly really have to…"

Skie muffled a giggle.

"Shut it," Imoen shot back, then glared at the Solar. "Come on, make me a goddess already or take me to where it happens, or hold off five minutes. Just make a decision."

The Solar, less than impressed, cut short her speech and eddies of light began to swirl around her.

"Soooo, I guess this is it, huh." Imoen sighed as the wisps slowly phased around the Solar.

Yulja couldn't bring herself to speak.

"Well, I guess we're still sisters, 'cause, you know, it's not like our da's changed or anything. You always were a slowpoke. Well, I owe ya, so let me know if there's anyone you want to commit to my care, if ya catch my drift." Imoen hesitated as the light began to enshroud her. "I'm… I'm really glad. I'm sorry about all of this. I just… I couldn't otherwise."

Yulja nodded slowly, then allowed, "Still looking up at that star?"

"Always."

Then both the Solar and Imoen were gone. Six more flares followed and the walls of Trademeet were cleared.

Behind her, Skie started giggling. Yulja spun around, tears stinging the corners of her eyes. "I'm sorry," Skie muffled her mouth with her hand, "Just… the last thing… the very last thing… it's just so… so human."

Yulja found a smile spreading across her own mouth, widening and then laughter erupted. Even Nalia cracked a smile, and Aerie's lips twitched, then she too started giggling. How else could it have ended, Yulja wondered, trying to contain herself. It was just too absurd. Why hadn't she gone before? She probably had. Classic Imoen.

"So, that's my… sister, everyone." Yulja allowed finally, then reaching for her friends, drew them close. And here are my friends, she added silently.

 _Fin._


	22. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

 _Whoooooo, go m_ _urder stuff._

Yulja sat bolt upright and glanced around. Nalia and Skie were sleeping soundly a little way over, and Aerie was off keeping watch. Slowly, she lay back down. In their old attic room in one of the Trademeet's inns, there was at least a sense of familiarity, even if the place was rundown. Then it came again.

Whoooo~oooooo. Ki~ill.

Yulja rubbed her temple. What in the world… _Imoen_?

 _Heya_! An overly cheerful voice resounded within her. _Guess what? Turns out that it was ol' Da talking to us all along, and now he's gone, I get everything._

 _You know it's the middle of the night…_ Yulja thought inwardly. She felt an unconcerned shrug. A wave of resignation overtook Yulja. How could she tell Imoen that she was at odds with everything her sister now stood for, that the legacy she inherited was abhorrent? _You left behind a real mess,_ Yulja sighed.

 _I've been thinkin' about that._ Imoen scratched her chin with Kazgoroth's claw. _Dunno if I should raise all the murdered and have a bunch of smelly ole skellies march an' restore order an' stuff, or just let it be._

 _Yeah, no one's going to support that._ Yulja inwardly agreed. _I really don't want to fight with you._

Me either. So here's what I was thinkin'. Murder, right? It's like, the worst. So I was wonderin' about it, and maybe I'll be the goddess of shopping.

Yulja blinked.

High heels, corsets. Fashion.

 _Oh my gods, Im…_

 _You know what they say, slowpoke. High heels are murder on the feet. Quit thinkin' so linear._

 _You know that you're–_

 _Murderin' the grammar? Ab-so-lutely._

 _I was going to say 'butchering'._

 _Same diff. Slang too. Ha, goddess of murderin' language. It gets better. Thanks sis, hadn't thought of that one._

 _So you're really the goddess of idle speech, rebellious youth, and idioms?_ Yulja wondered, rubbing her eyes.

 _Dun see why not. I mean, murder doesn't have to be physical, amirite?_

 _I guess it's better then actually killing people._ Shifting in her blankets, Yulja propped herself up on her elbow and glanced out the small window.

Well, there's gonna be some of that too. Not much, but some. I dunno though, guess it depends on your whole definition. Is justice murder? S'pose not, but some say executions are state justified killin' and laws are just what people decide, so I figure, change the definition. Language changes all the time, right?

Start a revolution in language. Great. Well, there are worse things, Yulja surmised. She shook her head. So where did they go from here? The Sword Coast was still in ruins, and the remnants of Gromnir's fledging empire still survived. Tethyr might overcome them or they might not.

 _I was thinkin' 'bout that too. So… how'd you like to be in charge? Call you special operations manager, principle secretary, or, I dunno, head priestess. A theocracy. But with, elections and stuff, whatever you want. Figure we could work together, maybe. If you want. I know you like numbers and stuff. Kind of like running a business, and you did that._

 _How do you know…?_

 _Um, well, see, that voice that was talking to us… it was Da, but it kinda wasn't, I mean, it was a leftover remnant, more his power with a bit of him. I figured I could look into it, and I kind of stole its memories. Stole, inherited. Point is, I know what it said to you. And guess what? We are the only ones left, and you still have a nice little pool o' power in ya. But I'm not gonna take it from you. Nothin' like mine, 'course, but you could be anything you wanted. A great sorcerer; maybe even start a cult. You demi-god you._ Yulja could feel the warmth of Imoen' smile.

She shook her head. She really wasn't interested.

 _Well, think on it. You get to make the rules, make stuff all fair and all. That is what you want. You don't have to be seen neither. You just have to, y'know, swear allegiance. This whole god stuff is kinda feudal. Vassals, patrons and stuff. I protect you, you protect me. Almost like a business contract. Anyway, no pressure, just think on it, 'kay? 'Cause even if you decline, someone's gonna try makin' you an offer, but since you're my sis, I get first dibs._

 _Do you really want to make the world a better place?_

Imoen shrugged. _Sis, if you could see the planes…_

Was Imoen going to be chatting constantly now?

You betcha. Perks of being little ole me. I get to murder your sanity, geddit?

With a groan, Yulja buried her pillow against her face. A goddess of puns on top of everything? How many domains could she steal? Maybe she needed to stop thinking and just pretend she couldn't hear her.

Soooo sis, what's the gos? Been a while since we talked boys. Let's start with you. No? Well, most boys don't really go for the claw, the horn some are okay with. I get asked where the tail is a lot. So there was this one boy, Garrick, real sweetie, nice eyes, not too bright…

Was there even any point telling her she was trying to sleep? Imoen'd probably make a murder pun on that too. Yulja pumped her pillow and lightly butted her forehead against it. Meanwhile, Imoen continued to gabble, something, Yulja suspected she'd not been able to do for a long time. Those months must really have been lonely. Imoen paused mid-sentence, smiled sadly, then resumed. Something about some handsome fellow in the Flaming Fist. Yulja pushed it to the back of her mind. What was going to happen next? Where should they go?

Hey, Yul. Did you ever want your face back? 'Cause I can do that now. If you want.

That caught her off guard, and her fingers reached to trace her cheeks. It had been so long… could she really go back? Was she still the same? Maybe it was time for a change.

Oh, and, um, I was kinda hoping for yer thoughts on something. See, dear ol' Da left behind all these temples, mostly nasty ruins, gonna hafta redecorate, maybe pink, pink walls, floors, ceilings, clothes –  
Imoen was aware she was the goddess of murder, wasn't she?

Yup, murder aesthetics. Total eyesore. See, it works. But um, d'ya think it's a good idea, or should I just build new ones? Or should I be totally non-conformist and have no temples? 'cause that'd be kinda cool. Maybe open up a line of jewellery or something, make it so all the kids want it. Like, I dunno, a pink skull. For an earring, or to hang off your bag. Satchels are in, right? So, yeah, maybe you could uh, help me?

Yulja felt a smile form. Imoen really was trying to reach out to her.

And I had another idea! So remember that star we always watch together? What if I make it Murder Star. Yeah, so anytime anyone looks up at it, they think Murder Star. So, like, our star is really our star. All these other gods are slowpokes, Yul. You have no idea how boring they are. So stuffy. I can't even talk to them without arranging an audience and oh my gods, you would not believe this Solar. She straight up left after I suggested a makeover. What's wrong with pink? Blue is so boring. She'd look way better in black and pink. And you would not believe the music here. It's like the lyre never happened. Harps and trumpets everywhere. So that got me thinking, what if I started a Murder Bard Troupe. Tour the realms, playing in every tavern, murderin' those old stuffy hymns– Yul? Sis? Oh. Sweet dreams, sis. None of those nasty nightmares anymore, no siree. Hey, that's an idea, maybe a murder memory service. Get rid of all those annoying tunes that get stuck in your head. Welp, that's it for me; guess we'll chat again tomorrow. Better get started on those bandstands… ooh, I know: pink skellie orchestras. Don't gotta pay 'em, can build stuff. Oh yeah! And cleaners, totally gotta market those; you'll love it. Murder billions of germs. Murder that disease. I really need to make a list. Now where'd that imp go? Bhaal's butler… huh, is this thing still on? 'Night Yul. Hugs an' kisses.


End file.
